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GENIUS OF POLISH HISTORY.
Wygnańcy, co tak długo błądzicie po świecie,
Kiedyż znużonym stopom spoczynek znajdziecie?
Dziki gołąb ma gniazdo, robak ziemi bryłg,
Każdy człowiek ojczyznę, a Polak mogiłę.
Translation on Niemcewicz'b page. (*)
POETS AND POETRY
OF
POLAND.
A COLLECTION OF POLISH TEESE.
INCLUDING A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE HISTORY OF POLISH
POETRY, WITH SIXTY BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF
POLAND'S POETS AND SPECIMENS OF THEIR
COMPOSITION, TRANSLATED INTO
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
EDITED BY
PAUL SOBOLESKL
CHICAGO:
KNIGHT & LEONARD, PRINTERS.
18 81.
V1-
■&pp°
Copyright, 1881,
By PAUL SOBOLESKI.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. Genius of Polish History.
2. Polish and American Coat-of-Arms.
3. Three Greatest Polish Poets.
4. Kochanowski.
5. Drużbacka.
6. Karpiński' s Monument.
7. Krasicki.
8. Niemcewicz.
9. Mickiewicz.
10. SłowACKi's Monument.
11. Zaleski;
12. Deotyma.
13. Goszczyński.
14. Pol.
15. Kondratowicz.
16. Kraszewski.
POLISH ACCENTED LETTERS.
Besides the common alphabet, the Poles have the
following accented letters — and as they may occa-
sionally occur in this work, it is deemed proper to
explain their sounds and pronunciation as far as it was
possible so to clo.
c| (nasal), has the sound of the French on as in son,
pardon, etc.
C, is pronounced tsie.
C (nasal), has the sound like the French un, as in
chacun, or like in as in main.
±J 1, very nearly as the English I, as in log, long, etc.
EL, is pronounced like the English n in need, or in
French, gagne.
O, is pronounced like the English oo.
S, like the English s, followed by e, as in sea, seize.
Ź, like the English z, in Zealand.
Ż, is pronounced like French g or j, as in genou,
jambe, jardin.
j, is always pronounced like y.
i, like ee.
w, like English v.
u, like oo
cz, like the English ch, as in child, chip, etc.
sz, like sh, as in shall, shield, etc.
rz, very like the French j, as in jardin.
szcz, like stch.
ch, very nearly like h, or like the German ch, as in
machen. brechen, etc.
PRONUNCIATION OF POETS' NAMES.
BALIŃSKI, -
BERWIŃSKI, -
BRODZIŃSKI, -
BOGUSŁAWSKI,
DRUŻBACKA, -
DMUCHOWSKI,
DEOTYMA,
FELIŃSKI, -
GAWIŃSKI,
GARCZYŃSKI,
GASZYŃSKI,
GÓRECKI,
gosławski, -
goszczyński,
hołowiński, -
jachowicz, -
jakubowski, -
jasko wski, -
karpiński,
klonowicz;
TRONOUNCE
Bah-lin-skee.
Ber-vin-skee.
Bro-dzin-skee.
- Bo-GOO-SLAV-SKEE.
Droosh-batz-kah.
- Dmoo-hov-skee.
Deo-te-ma.
Feh-lin-skee.
Gah-vin-skee.
- Gar-tschyn-skee,
Gah-shin-skee.
- Go-retz-kee.
gos-lav-skee.
- gosh-tchin-skee.
holo-vin-skee.
- Yah-ho-vitch.
Ya-koo-bov-skee.
- Yas-kov-skee.
Kar-pin-skee.
Klo-no-yitch
PRONUNCIATION OF POETS NAMES.
KOCHANOWSKI,
KNIAZŃIN, -
KONARSKI,
KONDRATOWICZ,
KORSAK (RAY),
KORSAK (JUL),
KORZENIOWSKI,
KRASICKI, -
KRASIŃSKI,
KRASZEWSKI,
KRO PIŃSKI,
LENARTOWICZ,
MALCZEWSKI, -
MIASKOWSKI,
MINASOWICZ, -
MICKIEWICZ,
MORAWSKI,
NARUSZEWICZ,
NIEMCEWICZ, -
ODYNIEC,
OLIZAROWSKI, -
OSIŃSKI,
POL, -
REY,
SARBIEWSKI, -
PRONOUNCE
Ko-HA-NOV-SKEE.
- KlN-AZ-NIN.
Ko-NAR-SKEE.
- KoN-DRAH-TOVITCH.
KOR-SAK.
- Kor- sak.
kor-zhen-ov-skee.
- Krah-sitz-kee.
Krah-sin-skee.
- Krah-shev-skee.
Kro-pin-skee.
- Leh-nar-to-vitch.
Mal-tchev-skee.
- MlAS-KOV-SKEE.
Me-nah-so-vitcu.
- MlTZ-KEH-VITCH.
Mo-RAV-SKEE.
- Na-rush-eh-vitch.
NlEM-TZE-VITCH
- O-DEE-NETZ.
O- LEE- ZAH-ROV-SKEE.
- O-SEEN-SKEE.
POHL.
- Rey.
Sar-biev-skee.
PRONUNCIATION OF POETS NAMES.
SIENKIEWICZ,
SŁOWACKI,
SZYMONOWICZ,
TREMBECKI,
UJEJSKI,
WASILEWSKI, -
WENGIERSKI,
WITWICKI,
WORONICZ, -
WYBICKI, -
ZALESKI,
ZAN, -
ZIMOROWICZ,
ZMIECHOWSKA,
ZMORSKI,
PRONOUNCE
- Sein-keh-vitch.
Slo-vatz-kee.
- She-mo-no-vitch.
Trem-betz-kee.
- ooy-ey-skee.
Yah-see-lehv-skee.
- Yen-gher-skee.
YlT-VITZ-KEE.
- Yó-RO-NITCH.
Ye-bitz-kee.
- Zah-les-kee.
Zahn.
- Ze-mo-ro-vitch.
Zmee-hov-skah.
- Zmor-skee.
INTRODUCTION.
It has been said that the most interesting phenome-
non in the history of a people is the rise and progress
of its literature. As in an individual man, so it is
likewise in a nation, life manifests itself in a twofold
manner: in action and in word. A wise man of an-
tiquity once said to an individual unknown to him:
" Speak, that I may know you." Thus we can address
ourselves to every civilized people — "show us your
literature, that we may judge of the actual state of your
civilization, your character and your general qualifi-
cations."
11
12 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
It is not enough that a nation has a literature of
its own, and that she sets it in sight of the progression
of humanity. It is not enough that she has actors
appearing on the scene of learning and knowledge;
a nation which has a desire to live and to advance with
proper dignity to her destiny must also have specta-
tors, hearers and learners in the grand school of social
vitality. In these lies her hope that she will not fall,
and that she will develop.
People are but collective units arising from individ-
ual or single beings united by force of nationality,
laws, inherent powers and actions. They grow and
nourish in accordance with their natural elements and
its development — and this development is the flower
and the most beautiful crown of its existence.
As every nation is but a part of the grand division
of the human society which it influences by its own
characteristics, so is the literature of each nationality
a part of the general enlightenment — which, circulating
around according to its strength and spirit, tends in
the same direction, and contributes toward making the
whole human kind more enlightened and more happy.
The literature of such people is a record of their
spiritual existence, and hence it becomes their duty —
a duty which they owe to themselves and the country
of their birth — to disseminate it, though it be in an
humble way, among the nations of the earth. Placed
in an apotheotic light on the heights of time, encom-
passing the past and the future, it points out the
direction, the mind and the feelings of the people from
whose hearts it sprung — at the same time erecting im-
perishable monuments for them which neither passing
misfortunes nor the relentless hand of time can ever
obliterate.
INTRODUCTION. 13
Years ago there existed a great nation — great in
achievements — noble in her bearing toward her neigh-
bors— a warlike and chivalrous people, who once
commanded the respect and admiration of the world.
That nation was Poland. Since she began to play an
important role in the history of nations she could
count over 1,500 literary names, many of which were
at the time , and are now, illustrious in the annals not
only of Poland, but of the world. Prostrate, parti-
tioned, suffering, and blotted out as it were from
existence, she awaits the fulfillment of her destiny.
Fate sometimes strikes nations as it does individuals,
but hope in her case, though it may seem futile to
other nationalities, never forsakes the sorrowing hearts
of her children. Scattered though they are through-
out the confines of the habitable globe, they have
never ceased to wait, to hope, and to trust, that she
will once more be resuscitated, resurrected, regen-
erated, and once more counted among the nations of
the earth! And we think that we are not mistaken
when we say that there are many noble hearts in all
nationalities who would respond to this heartfelt long-
ing with an Amen!
It is not the intent of the compiler and editor of
this work to go into a diffuse history of Polish litera-
ture; his resources being rather limited, he must do
as best he can. The purpose of this volume is only to
take a cursory glance, and to present to the American
public the names of some of the most distinguished
Polish poets, with short biographical sketches and
some specimens of their productions translated into the
English language — some of which may not be equal to
the originals in the easy flow of language and the
beauty of expression. The Polish tongue may seem to
14 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
other nationalities as somewhat harsh and discordant,
but in reality it is one of the most flowery, expressive,
and harmonious languages extant. No language can
excel it in heroic verse, nor claim preeminence over it
in the expression of sentiment.
Although the editor has written and translated a
goodly part of The Poets and Poetry of Poland, he
availed himself of some translations of Dr. John
Bowring, a distinguished English litterateur, and of
Dr. Thomas D. English, an American gentleman of
eminent poetical talent. He also cheerfully acknowl-
edges assistance and advice of friends well experienced
in literary matters.
In presenting this work to the public the editor
can truthfully state that he has been patiently waiting
for thirty years for some of his learned and able coun-
trymen to come to the front with a work on "the
Poets and Poetry of Poland," but up to this period no
one has yet appeared, so this important task has fallen
to his lot. He cheerfully accepts the situation, and
in offering this to the American People and to his
countrymen, he regrets that the collection is not more
complete and not more satisfactory to himself — for he
can proclaim to the world, without any egotistical feel-
ing of nationality, but in all the sincerity of his heart,
that Polish literature is a deep mine of precious treas-
ure, although outside of its own people it has been
known but little heretofore. There may have been
impediments to cause this delay, but as the world
advances in knowledge and general enlightenment these
hidden treasures will be unearthed and brought to
light.
This volume only points out the place where it
lies inert, and fortunate will be the hand that will in
INTRODUCTION. 15
the future unearth these untold poetical treasures that
have for so many years lain hidden from the sight of
one of most enlightened people, the Anglo-Americans;
but the way having once been opened, there will be
found in the future stronger and abler hands, who can
add to this work a great deal of valuable matter which
would be interesting, not only to the American people
and the Poles, but to the world.
PAUL SOBOLESKI.
THREE GREATEST POLISH POETS.
POETRY OF POLAND.
The rise and progress of Polish Poetry and general liter-
ature may be divided in five distinct epochs, to- wit :
First Epoch — Called Piast- Jagellon Epoch, from the year
1000 to 1500.
Second Epoch — That of King Sigismund, and extending
from 1500 to 1620.
Third Epoch — The Jesuit Epoch, from 1620 to 1750.
Fourth Epoch — Known as the Classic Epoch (or Kon-
arski^ Epoch), from 1750 to 1822.
Fifth Epoch — The Romantic Epoch, commencing with
the appearance of Adam Mickiewicz and extending up to the
present time.
FIEST EPOCH.
Piast-Jagellon. Which may be considered as the Morning
Star of Polish Literature. It dates from the intro-
duction of Christianity to the time when printing came
into general use — 1000-1500.
Before the tenth century the history of Polish Poetry
is rather dim and uncertain. It is only since the intro-
duction of Christianity into Poland, during the reign of
Mieczyslas I, that the Polish literature assumed a per-
ceptible shape. With the advance of civilization the
idols created in bygone days, before which the people
bowed, were one by one demolished, and the prejudices
17
18 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
of the past so thoroughly subverted that in a short
time scarcely a vestige of them was left. We have,
indeed, old reminiscences of songs, fables, and tradi-
tions, but we find them all pervaded in exaggeration
and superstition.
In this interesting period we had poems, secular
songs, and other kinds of rhythmical compositions, be-
cause circumstances surrounding our people — such as
wars, victories, and defeats ; weddings, funerals, and
national ceremonies — naturally called into existence the
feeling of poetical inspiration ; hence bards appeared
who were the creators of these compositions. We had
also religious poetry, because from time immemorial
our people sung in churches in the Polish language;
but the relics of the original sacred poetry are very
scarce, since in the progression and refinement of the
Polish language these compositions were, so to speak,
made over, and hence many of them lost the stamp of'
their originality.
In the fifteenth century Polish Poetry made but little
progress ; indeed, we may say it stood as it was in the
age of Piast — in its infancy. Scholastic philosophy and
the Latin tongue stifled, as it were, the native vein of
the Polish songs, — scarcely the traces of a few were pre-
served. Toward the end of the fifteenth century, when
our people became more numerous and stronger, our
poets also began to assume more distinct and promi-
nent places. We no longer rest on conjectures and in-
ferences, but upon monumental evidences. Sacred
poetry was founded upon several renditions of the
Psalms, as also upon sacred songs translated from the
Bohemian, and the secular rested upon a wider range
and continual improvement on the Piast period. Hence
the rhythmical compositions of that period not being
POETRY OF POLAND. 19
characterized by any especial shading of poetry, we will
only classify the remaining traces and monuments.
'l. Relics of sacred poetry. 2. Of secular rhyth-
mical creations. In fact we could mention some dra-
matic souvenirs of those ages, but as they are of no
great significance, we leave that part to the pen of a
special inquirer.
RELICS OF SACRED POETRY.
After the introduction of Christianity, the Polish
Poetry, being under the influence of the civilization of
"Western Europe, began to flourish very early in sacred
or church songs ; although these songs were chiefly
translations from the Bohemian tongue, or, we should
rather remark, they were sort of made over.
Of the earliest poetic compositions nothing has yet
been found. Whether they had been wholly lost, or
were defaced by continual use in handling and tran-
scribing, is uncertain ; but as no religion has ever done
without songs and chants, we may naturally presume
that such had existed. Songs and chants of that kind
form the nucleus of every nation's poetry and music, and
it was in such rhythmical composition that the Polish
language .began to put forth its shoots, to refine and
improve. Pious simplicity especially characterizes these
compositions; intrinsically they have no poetical worth,
being as it were only prose un skillfully versified.
From the most important of these compositions
which came down to our times, and which deserve
notice, is :
1. "Boga Rodzica" (the Mother of God), origi-
nally composed by St. Adelbert. This celebrated chant
was composed in the Bohemian language, and was sung
by the Poles before the commencement of every battle,
20 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
and is to this day sung during the divine services in the
Cathedral of Gniezno. The author of this celebrated
chant was born in 950 in Bohemia, and was the Bishop
of Prague. Being persecuted by the Bohemians, he
removed at first to Hungary, and then to Poland.
That was during the reign of Mieczyslas I, where he
was instrumental in spreading the newly introduced
doctrines of Christianity. In the year 995, with the
advice of Boleslas the Great, King of Poland, he went
to Prussia to instruct the pagans of that country in
Christianity, and suffered the death of a martyr at
Fishhausen. Bole.-las the Great bought his body from
the Prussians and had it buried with great ceremony at
Gniezno. Otto III, the Emperor of Germany, visited
his grave.
2. Fiftieth Psalm from thirteenth century.
3. Sorrows of the Mother of God under the Cross
of the Redeemer.
4. Psalter of Margaret, the Princess of the Mora-
vians, from fourteenth century ; but it is not certain
whether the production belongs to Margaret, the wife
of Louis, King of Hungary, or to Maria, the King's
eldest daughter. From certain passages there are
traces giving us to understand that it was the first trial —
the first translation of the psalter.
5. The Psalter of Queen Hedwige, from fifteenth
century — the two first psalms.
6. Be Praised the Queen (Salve Regina), from the
year 1406.
Of the names of the authors of religious songs of
those days the following are known to us :
John Witowski, the companion of Ladislaus Łokietek,
who composed a song on the sufferings of our Lord,
which was sung in Poland during Lent.
POETRY OF POLAND. 21
John Opaliński, the bishop of Posen, a great lover
of music and good cheer. He wrote a song about the
Ascension ; the Immaculate Virgin Mary ; a song
about St. Adelbert ; live songs about St. Peter, and
six about St. Paul. These songs were sung by the
religious brotherhood of Posen.
John Preworszczyk, from fifteenth century, who
collected a small volume of ''Anthems " (1435). This
collection contains originals and translations from the
Latin, and the title is also Latin.
Andrew from SIupia, a Benedictine monk, wrote
songs of the Queen of Heaven ; also hymns to Jesus
Christ and others. These compositions are superior to
any previously written.
At that period the Poles had not come to full civili-
zation, and yielded to the influences of Western
Europe. Their poetry began at once to assume a
higher grade, and became more assimilated with music,
full of sweet harmony. Between 965-1040, however,
they still sang the old songs. The boors guarding the
bordering Castles during the reign of Boleslas the
Romantic, about King Popiel, were commonly sung by
young girls, and were not given up until the death of
Boleslas the Great. There were also many dumas ,
about the Tartars, who, in the thirteenth century, about
every twenty years made incursions into Poland ; but
after a while these songs fell into disuse:
There were also many ritual songs. The fragments
of these compositions attest their antiquity. Many of
these were made over into Christian songs, leaving,
however, the traces of some primitive words originally
used, which plainly identify them as the relics of old
times.
The wedding songs were preserved the best of any
22 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
during almost eight centuries. These songs seem to
possess an idyllic tendency, and have come down even
to the present time in their primitiveness. From these
remnants the following deserve mention :
1. Congratulatory song to King Casimir I, begin-
ning with the words " Welcome, welcome, our dear
host."
2. Plaintive songs of Boleslas the Great, which
Martin Gallus translated into Latin.
3. Song in honor of Boleslas, surnamed " The
Crooked-Mouthed."
4. Song describing the assassination of Ludgarda
by her husband Przemyslas.
5. Song about Albert, the Justice of the City of
Cracow.
6. Song about Yitold.
7. Song concerning the calamity of Bukowina.
The most distinguished authors of those times are :
Andrew GaIka, the Professor in the Academy of
Cracow, and Canon of St. Thomas' Church, lived in
fifteenth century. Lie composed a song about Wick-
liffe, who encouraged Huss's religious views among the
Poles.
Adam Świnka, the Cathedral Canon of Cracow, and
Secretary of Jagello, lived in fifteenth century. He
wrote beautiful elegiac verses in the Latin tongue ;
epitaph on the death of Queen Hedwige ; composition
on the death of Zawisza*, surnamed "The Black."
Besides these he wrote a heroic poem — " De rebus
gestis ac dictus memorabilibus Casimiri Secundi Polo-
niae Regis inclitissimi." These songs were translated
into Polish by Louis Kondratowicz.
Conrad Celtes wrote "Carmen ad Yistulam," de-
* A celebrated Polish hero.
POETĘ Y OF POLAND. 23
scribing the channel of the river Vistula ; "Salinaria
ad Janum Terinum," describing the salt mines of
Wieliczka. His influence fired the Polish youth to the
Koman Classic literature.
Celtes was born in Germany in 1459, and was
crowned with a wreath by the Emperor of Germany
for his Latin poetry. While visiting for scientific pur-
poses Rome, Venice, lllyria, and Panonia, he came to
Cracow to hear Albert, from Brudziewa, lecture on
Astronomy. He remained in Cracow two years, divid-
ing his time in the study of astronomy, reading the
classics, and writing poetry in Latin, breathing his
love to Hasilina, a Cracovian maiden, — as also enjoy-
ing the literary society of the young academicians. He
died in 1508.
SECOND EPOCH.
Called łi The Sigismuxd Epoch.''1 Golden Advent of Polish
Poetey— 1500-1620.
In the Second Epoch we see another, a wider, and
a more beautiful field opening before us. What was
only in the bud is in this epoch in full bloom. For-
merly it was only the light of the moon struggling to
penetrate through the darkness of ages. Now the
golden rays of the sun throw a new halo and form
enchantingly mingled colors of the rainbow. In those
days the historian was anxiously looking for the small-
est possible traces, but now in the abundance of pro-
ductions his task is only to select what is the best.
Weary of traveling amidst the woodless and track-
less prairies, we begin with pleasure, and hope to see
the accounts of true literature springing up. from the
24 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
inner life of a developing people and multiplying in
the production of poets, orators, and historians. It
was still more singular that the advance was made in
two different languages — the Polish and the Latin —
equally well cultivated. It seemed as if two litera-
tures began to bloom all at once in one and the same
people. Thus we begin the sixteenth century.
The characteristic signs of this age were great dis-
coveries and inventions. At no previous time was
there so much anxiety and lively desire to study and
ascertain the inherent qualities of Nature ; never be-
fore the spirit of inquiry and searching after was wider
than in this epoch of Columbus, Gama, Raphael,
Copernicus, Galileo, and Guttenberg ; the world be-
came broader and more expansive by bold conception
of one man ; received a new world from the hands of
another, and if in accordance with the system of the
Creator himself, it was built over anew as if by the en-
chanter's hand ; the times of chivalry disappeared ;
Art thrusts the barbaric weapon out of the hands of
the stronger ; knowledge subverts the idols of scholas-
tics ; and, finally, that the ideal should not be lost,
Ariosto, Camoens, Cervantes, and their compeers, ap-
pear upon the stage. Perhaps at no period so many
eminent men made their appearance at the helm:
Leo X, Charles Y, Francis I, Sigismund the Old,
Henry YIII, Soliman, Shah Ismael, and Shah Akbar.
Amidst the turbulence of those days, there was one
country beyond the confines of Western Europe occu-
pying the common sphere of knowledge shed by the
light of Christianity, which quietly progressed in the
general improvement, in the science of government,
literature, and general enlightenment.
In their active life the Poles nursed their own ideas,
POETKY OF POLAND. 25
in shaping and by degrees unfolding their natural char-
acter, and thus the Polish nation, by uninterrupted pro-
gression, was nearing to her maturity.
At this epoch Polish Poetry and Polish Music kept
even pace with other branches of natural advancement.
Poets of great distinction appeared, their compositions
shedding a great luster over the national literature —
Nicholas Key, John Kochanowski, Klonowicz, Miaskow-
ski, and others. Besides these there were Polish poets
who wrote in the Latin tongue, as for instance :
Daxtyszek, who is the author of " De virtutis et
honore differentia Somnium"; "Carmen Extempora-
rum de victoria insigni Sigismundi Regis ''; " De nos-
trorum temporurn Calamitatibus " ; "Jonas propheta
de interitu civitatis Gedanensis "; " Epigramata varia,"
etc. etc.
Paul Krosnianin also sung for posterity many
memorable things: "Jureditum Sigismundi I, Regis
Poloniae "; " De nuptiis Sigismundi Regis Poloniae et
Bonae Ducis Mediolani hliae," etc. etc.
Clemens Jaxicki. All of his poetry belongs to
lyric compositions. Their smoothness reminds the
scholar of Ovid, and on account of the outpouring of a
great feeling he can be justly compared to Catullus and
Tibullus. This epoch comes down to the year 1620.
THIRD EPOCH.
Called the Jesuit Period — 1620-1750.
A distracted state of the country in consequence of
internal quarrels and wars caused also the decadence in
Polish literature. It is with much regret and reluctance
that this fact is stated. The deviation from the right
way of a single age caused the retrogression of Poland ;
26 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. •
and while all countries surrounding us were advancing
in light, we were thrown into darkness and became, as
it were, the sport of a relentless fate. Sad, indeed,
is the lesson received from our forefathers, that retro-
gression from light is far more detrimental to the hap-
piness of a nation than the simplicity of ignorance.
After the death of Jagellons and Stephen Batory,
many misfortunes came over our people. Incursions
of enemies and internal dissensions caused many suf-
ferings to the Republic. As if to compensate for this
retrogression, immortal heroes appeared on the stage
of action. Żółkiewski, Czarnecki, Chodkiewicz, and
John Sobieski shed upon their country a true, heroic
luster, as they not only fought for their own country,
but for entire Christendom.
We should not very much transgress if we said that
in this period we show but few distinguished names in
poetry. Zimorowicz, Gawiński, Mortszyn, Kochowski,
Elizabeth Druzbacka, and Prince Jabłonowski belong to
this period, and we have every reason to be proud of
them. This period extends from Sigismund III to
Stanislaus Augustus.
FOURTH EPOCH.
Pseudo-Classic, or Konarski's Epoch, or Revival of Gen-
eral Knowledge and Literature in Poland.
The unpropitious times of Sigismunds under the
blasts of which the flowers of Polish Poesy began to
wither had passed away. The circumstances, how-
ever, and elements of this new period were very favor-
able toward reviving, regenerating, and improving the
almost neglected branches of literature. The languish-
ing powers of the Polish Muse were all of a sudden
POETRY OF POLAND. 27
strengthened and exalted as if by the enchanter's
wand. Poets like Karpiński, Trembecki, Woronicz,
Kniaznin, Krasicki, Wengierski, Szymonowicz, Dmuch-
owski, and others appeared in the galaxy. Authors of
great distinction in other branches of literature began
to multiply with astonishing rapidity. The King him-
self, being a learned man, encouraged men of genius
with great magnanimity.
The beginning of this desirable revival was chiefly
owing to Konarski and his companions, who, being-
educated in France under the protection of Stanislaus
Leszczyński, on their return to their native land brought
fresh ideas with them regarding social science and liter-
ature, and hence it was that a French classic literature
was inducted into Poland similar to the French liter-
ature existing during the reign of Louis XI Y. Konar-
ski compelled the Jesuits to adopt these reforms, and
having obtained the powerful assistance of Joseph and
Andrew Załuski, — bishops of great learning and
influence — was able to thus effect the salvation of
their countrymen who through former wars and inter-
nal dissension had so unfortunately retrograded from
their former greatness.
During the last years of the reign of Augustus III
the Polish literature was enriched by works of great
worth on history, bibliography, theology, etc. Minas-
owicz wrote good poetry and translated into the Polish
language ancient classics. Nagurczewski translated
the works of Homer, Yirgil, and Cicero. Jabłonowski
rendered into Polish the fables of ^Esop and Telem-
achus.
As the nineteenth century was rapidly approaching,
learned men and poets found protection and assistance
in the houses of great magnates; and Puławy, the resi-
28 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
dence of princes Czartoryiski, became the dwelling-
place of the Polish muse.
In the year 1800 there sprung up at Warsaw u The
Society of the Friends of Learning." Its members
were men of great learning, and vigorous writers; many
of the poets enlisted under that auspicious banner.
The object of that society was to preserve from oblivion,
and enrich, the wealth of the Polish literature. This
National Society gave a great impetus to strenuous
endeavors by men of genius to write. Such men as
Woronicz, Niemcewicz, Albertrandy, Lelewel, Bandt-
kie, Sniadecki, Czacki, Linde, Ossoliński, and others
appeared upon the stage of literary fame. Each of
these celebrated men not only contributed much to the
general literature of their country, but exerted great
influence over the tenor and literary taste of those
days. Every one of them had a direct bearing on the
progression of literature, and for that reason there was
an uncommon advance in poetry, history, and natural
sciences.
Although the compositions of at least a part of this
period were somewhat affected by French idioms and
inflation, yet the strength of the national current pre-
vailed and preserved the native purity of language and
ideas unharmed.
FIFTH EPOCH.
Pseudo-Romantic ok Mickiewicz's Epoch — Extending from
the Year 1822 to the Present Day.
Amidst the many violent political shocks in Europe,
which only ended with the downfall of Napoleon the
Great and the Congress of Vienna in 1815, there also
POETRY OF POLAND. 29
came changes in the intellectual world. Europe got
rid of mediaeval excrescences and conceits !
Thinking men must admit that there are moments
in the lives of nations as well as of individuals when
the mind, rocked by the storms of adversity, longs for
quietness and rest. When we see that the happiness
which we had been seeking, the great aims for which
we have been striving with so much faith and devoted-
ness, have come to nothing, that all our troubles and
endeavors have been of no avail, then it is that we turn
our languishing eyes into the past when we thought we
were happy, though in reality we were only compara-
tively so, not knowing that it might and should be better.
We look as if into the mirror, into the luster of sweet
and pleasing remembrances of departed years, since
now they seem to be more beautiful and more poetic,
just because they will never return. Such time is pro-
pitious to the unfolding and developing into bloom of
historical poetry. Such an epoch in modern Europe
was the beginning of the nineteenth century.
The political and intellectual storms of the last hun-
dred years left after them banished hopes, a void, and a
faintness. From the smoldering ashes and moss-over-
grown ruins the mental powers, rent by doubts and a
wounded heart which the present could not satisfy, the
yearning voice spoke forth for the feeling and faith, for
the greatness and poetry of olden times. This was in
consequence of a reaction of the past.
As it always happens that when there is a new
change to take place in the kingdom of imagination
immediately there is born a new generation willing and
ready to second and support it, so it was at this
period. Classicism began to show every day more and
more plainly that its time was about over. In the
30 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
minds of the highest cultivation it began to lose, gradu-
ally, its prestige, and although no one could see at the
time what should take its place, everyone felt that its
decadence was at hand, when lo ! a single bard ap-
peared on a newly erected stage, and pronounced the
word Homa/nticism. Literary men gave him a willing
ear. The apostles of a new poetic faith began to in-
crease and multiply and with much enthusiasm spread
the new doctrine of poetic inspiration, and thus the
new Phoenix was born. The originator of the Roman-
tic School was Adam Mickiewicz. It will ever be a
memorable time in the history not only of the Polish
but of European poetic literature. Witwicki, Gos-
czyński, Zaleski, Gosławski, and others, propelled by
the current of their genius, joined the new camp, and
having sanctioned the new doctrine, upheld it with the
force of their poetic powers. They struck the strings
which up to this period were not only untouched but
unknown. The self-created spirit broke the shackles
of former days — shackles that so strictly bound the free-
dom and spirit of poetic inspiration to certain laid down
poetic rules in composition. Then it was that the poetic
flow began to gush out from the eternal spring of love
and phantasy. The Polish nationality received this
new outgrowth with great approbation and delight,
which is still in popular favor, and we think will con-
tinue so for generations to come.
The creations of our poets of this period are almost
in every instance breathing with a peculiarly happy,
heartfelt, and lively serenity of the spirit. Although
sadness and tearfulness preponderate in their strains,
yet it can be plainly seen that they are pervaded with
a strong belief in the guardianship of Providence over
the affairs of this world, which in its nature is hopeful
POETRY OF POLAND. 31
and noble, for it assures sooner or later the additional
triumph over the power of falsehood and evil, contend-
ing against them and temporarily restraining their in-
fluence over the world.
Unlike the literatures of other nationalities, breath-
ing doubts, grief, or repulsive flattery, or replete with
metaphysical mysticism, which loses itself in the un-
fathomable, our ideals had something in them of re-
ality, and in almost all poetic creations of. our bards
there is an undercurrent of religiously patriotic love of
country, deeper, and yet more purely understood, than
in any other literature.
As to the introduction of this pseudo-romantic style
of writing, its votaries could not precisely define what
they wished and where they were tending, because no
one precisely understood upon what system this Ro-
manticism was founded.
It must be remembered that heretofore the French
system stood preeminent in the Polish literature, but
now the time had come to cut loose from it, and Polish
litterateurs began to consider the poetic elements
governing the middle ages and also giving much
weight to the German style. Happily for the Poles
that the deliberations of these men served as a protec-
tion in the incubation of the style purely national.
After the ebullition of the first youthful enthusiasm
was over, our poets began to examine their strength,
but finding it as yet very undefined they turned their
attention to different but inexhaustible sources — the
treasures of popular poetry, which led to the love of
the supernatural and miraculous, and to the fresh tra-
ditions of the great past, which they wished to preserve
and to perpetuate by their songs.
But what was the aim of these poets ? It was to
32 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
bring nearer to the sight the local phenomena of exist-
ence, to increase the light, to make the home history
more interesting, and to preserve in the mirror of
poetic art the hereditary thoughts and feelings, as also
the remembrances upon which is founded, and from
which emanates, the individuality of national existence.
All the above mentioned poets, albeit different in the
tendencies of their genius, meet at the same point, that
is, in the texture and concatenation of thought, the
national feeling.
During the existence of the Duchy of Warsaw, and
subsequently the Kingdom of Poland, and especially
until the year 1825, the whole of our literature flowed
as it were in one and the same channel ; but since the
advent of Brodziński different tendencies began to
spread over the country. Civilization had extended its
blessings all over the Polish nation, and at the same
time had awakened great poetic talent.
Small poetical circles were formed in the Kingdom
of Poland, in Lithuania and that part of Poland called
Little Russia, comprising Podolia, Yolhynia and
Ukraine, forming as it were so many different and
distinct pleiads, but shining in the same heavens and
constituting our whole literature. Padura, Zaleski,
Goszczyński, Olizarowski, Groza, and others, but they
were all outstripped by Brodziński' }s "Wiesław" and
Malczewskie "Marya." The first was well under-
stood, but the other seemed incomprehensible at first,
but now he is reckoned among the first poets of Poland.
But the grand center of poetic power was Adam
Mickiewicz, the creator of a new and splendid epoch
in Polish Poetry, the man who accomplished a twofold
task, that of gathering in his own personality the spirit
of the whole nation and raising up the Polish Poetry
POETRY OF POLAND. 33
to the rank of the European muse. This he accom-
plished most successfully.
In Germany the Goethe epoch was passing way.
The era of English poetry was beginning to change by
the appearance of Lord Byron and Walter Scott.
In France there were Lamartine and Victor Hugo.
Between these poets and Mickiewicz there was that
kindred relationship which can only exist among men
of great genius at the same time and without any re-
gard to nationality.
The imitators of Mickiewicz did not exactly equal
his genius. Among the most prominent of these could
be counted Odyniec, Alexander, Chodźko, Witwicki,
Massalski and Julian Korsak.
With the year 1831 a new inspiration seemed to
have taken hold of the whole Polish nation, and the
Polish literature also took a new turn, that of a moral
and a warm patriotic tendency. From this time Polish
poetry assumes the highest possible significance, and
becomes the leading and reigning spirit of the whole
Polish nationality.
It was about this time that Krasiński and SIowacki
unfolded the great power of their poetic genius. Then
again we have something from what we may term
Siberian poetry, from Charles Baliński, and from the
literature of Caucasus of Gustate Zieliński, and from
one of the foremost, Maurice GosIawski, who, during
the prostration of the nation raised his voice to the
highest and sung the heroic songs, which from this
time began to characterize the literature of Poland.
Vincent Pol began also to sing of the past glory
and loveliness of the Polish land, and thus was formed
a new pleiad of a young generation of Polish poets, the
most distinguished of whom were Bielowski, Siemień-
34 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
ski, Wasilewski, Groza, Kondratowicz (Syrokomla),
Berwlnski, Zmorski, Gaszyński, Lenartowicz and
Hedwige Łuszczewska (Deotyma).
We come now to a period when the Polish muse
takes another decided turn. Krasiński, shuddering at
the premonitions of death's alarms, reveals to the
world in his " Psalms " the mystery of Resurrection,
and Ujejski, following in his wake, proclaims his
"Lamentations." The heroic poetry, too, inscribes
upon the pages of immortality the names of Iasinski,
Godebski, Korsak, Suchodolski and Romanowski.
If the poetry of to-day does not flow in any other
channel than heretofore, it certainly adds to it the
great play upon the feelings, and beautifies it by
variegated shadings of the picturesque ; keeping always
in the wake of national traditions, it also keeps pace
with the inward fitness of national spirit, thereby
awakening constant admiration and furnishing material
for the tuneful lyre of the Polish bards.
Polish Poetry during the reign of Sigismunds is
characterized by classic conciseness and pleasing sim-
plicity. During the time of Stanislaus Augustus, it is
marked by accuracy and branching out in the richness
of the language. In our times it is distinguished by
still greater purity, taste, and general improvement,
which may be considered as a remarkable augury of
eminent progression, especially so when we consider
that the writers, after having regained the original purity
of the vernacular tongue, will in future do away with
all foreign words which have a tendency to weaken
the expression and dignity of poetic compositions in
the Polish language. And the object will be fully ac-
complished if they will avoid imitating the manner of
foreign style of composition.
POETRY OF POLAND. 35
As regards the present spirit of the Polish Poetry,
we see the love of country pervades everywhere.
Zealous admiration of noble deeds, tempered ecstasy,
free imagination untainted by fantastic conceits, mild
in tenderness, simplicity, morality of poetical philoso-
phy, and beautiful pictures of rural life and family in-
tercourse.
In this, as it were improvised, literature, the course
of which has been lively and rapid, are expressed the
feelings of a great people's national records, and the
spirit of Poland long ago, but these have not yet reached
their journey's end, — not to their final destination. It
still goes Onward and Upward.
36 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
KEY.
Nicholas Rey may be considered as the father of
Polish poetry. Following in the train of the age he
lived in, which was theological Polemics, he partici-
pated in all its delusions and its errors. As a poet he
was only mediocre, lacking in what is termed the poet-
ical inspiration ; and yet although the reader cannot
recognize Rey as a genius, he will discover in his writings
sober and substantial thought, healthy and forcible
manner, and fresh expressions, somewhat colored but
invariably pithy. If his poetical compositions are
devoid of high imagery, they show, nevertheless, and
pointedly too, that he wished to demonstrate to the
book-learned teachers and professional poets the exist-
ence of a people's literature, and thereby awaken in
them the spirit of inquiry in regard to plebeian or popu-
lar poetry, — that important link — writing for the first
time the plebeian literature and the literature of the
learned.
Rey was indeed a true bard, and did much toward
the elevation of the Polish Muse. King Sigismund
Augustus held Rey in the highest esteem, and not only
patronized and enriched him, but conferred upon him
many marks of distinction.
Rey was born in 1505, and passed his youth in frolic
and pleasure. He went to school for about five years,
but it seems he did not learn there much of any thing —
not till the twentieth year of his life, when through
the influence of his uncle he obtained a place with a
very wealthy family of Tenczyński, who generally
spent their time in Italy, and associating with the mem-
bers of the Imperial family, knew how to prize learn-
KEY. 37
ing and learned people, and understood how to assimi-
late the customs of their country with European civili-
zation. Rey being connected with a family of such
high standing, began to acquire facility in the writing
of Polish letters and learned a little Latin. He amused
himself with study and music and began to compose
verses, but he never could stay in one place ; chiefly
spending his time in hunting he cast his lot with
Hetman Sieniawski and traveled in different parts of
Poland, frequenting political assemblies, courts of jus-
tice and meetings of all sorts, being everywhere
received with much eclat as a man of good cheer and
ready wit, fond of good wine and a sumptuous table.
Not mixing in any quarrels or contentions of any kind,
he was welcome and received hospitality no matter
where he turned. Being liked by all except by strict
Roman Catholics, he passed his time at the courts of
both Sigismuncls, who bestowed upon him good pay and
munificent gifts. Although he was present at every
assembly and almost at every political and religious
meeting, he never would accept of any office.
Amidst all the allurements of social circles he did
not neglect his calling as a poet, and kept improving
as he grew older. He died in 1569.
VIRTUE.
Virtue is the earth's gem of gems,
Rich and poor the diadems.
Though all emeralds formed one star,
Virtue's light is brighter far !
For earth's marts man has not made
Balance which this gem hath weighed,
All other blessings pass or fade —
Virtue till death is undismayed.
38 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
VICE.
Vice is a serpent, lying through all weather,
Coiled up unseen beside life's wayside stone.
When knave and fool carousing come together,
With warning hiss it makes its venom known.
The following is Key's description of what Poland
was three hundred and forty years ago :
Cast your eyes around you and behold our glorious king-
dom ! Strong within itself, Poland needs no assistance from
other nations. It is one of the most powerful nations in
Europe, and in martial character is preeminent. . The Lord
of all has placed it here, and endowed her people with many
rare qualities. Is there a nation on earth equal to ours in
bravery and endurance? The intrepidity, the unyielding per-
severance and daring heroism of Polish soldiers surpasses
anything in the annals of history.
In knowledge and progress Poland stands equal if not
superior to other nations. In her most brilliant eras she has
produced many men eminent in science, among whom we can
count at this present time Copernicus, the discoverer of the
true system of the universe. Other nations may possess more
gold and silver, spices, silks, etc., but can they compete with
us in virtue and excellence, in valor and prowess ? What
nation can stand against the indomitable courage of our
valiant soldiers? Many nations now in our memory have
called upon us to assist them in time of war, and when they
saw our soldiers in their ranks they felt assured of victory.
A Polish soldier fights to win, and wherever he shows his
open face and brave heart the e*iemy is forced to yield.
A THOUGHT.
For the improvement of his mind it is necessary that a
man should read.
ANECDOTES.
Rey was very witty, and one day while he was fishing a
neighbor sent a boy to him with his compliments, and an
KEY. 39
empty dish for some fish. Rey understood the drift and
remarked : " I will return compliments for compliments, but
for the fish I must have money, not compliments."
It so happened that the poet was outwitted by an ignorant
peasant. While traveling Rey came to a certain village, and
meeting a peasant the following dialogue took place :
Rey. Who holds possession of this village?
Peasant. The earth and fences.
Rey. Who is master here?
Peasant. He who has the most money.
Rey. Who is the elder of this place?
Peasant. The oldest person in the place is a man who is
one hundred years old, if that is what you mean.
Rey. I mean who occupies the highest place?
Peasant. Oh ! yonder linden tree by the church.
Rey. How far is it to noon?
Peasant. It has not passed here yet, so I couldn't tell you.
Rey. It seems to me, fellow, that you are rather impu-
dent, and deserve a slap in your mouth.
Peasant. I wouldn't like that, as I am no dog ; but if you
would slap something into my hand it would be all right.
Rey. " As I live," said the poet, " I have never met so pert
a peasant before."
Useless the yield of well worked fields
If but to waste the housewife yields.
The poet tells us that the above has a twofold meaning.
One is: no matter how many victories we gain over our ene-
mies in the field, they will be productive of no good if there
is discord and misrule at home. And another is : no matter
how hard a farmer works in the field if his wife is wasteful,
idle and improvident, the farming operations must come to
•ruin. Which is proven by another proverb:
A wasteful housewife can carry out with her apron more
than the farmer can haul in with a wagon.
The light of Holy Truth can never be extinguished.
KOCHANOWSKI.
"Wszystko sie dziwnie plecie
Na tym tu biednym świecie.
A-ktoby chciał wszystkiego rozumem dochodzić,
I zginie, a nie będzie umiał w to ugcdzić.
Translation on the last page of Kochanowski (*).
KOCHANOWSKI. 41
KOCHANOWSKI.
John Kochanowski, who attained great celebrity as
a poet, is the type and true representative of the Polish
muse of the sixteenth century, for in him were united
all the rhythmical elements of that epoch. From the
many of his lyrical creations could be mentioned " So-
bótka," or the song of St. John's Eve, " Threns (or
Laments) on Ursula's Death," "Reconciliation," "Epi-
taphs," "Inscriptions," "Psalms," "Translations from
the Songs of Anacreon," and "Chess."
Kochanowski having had no specimens of Polish
literature before him, had himself to break through the
first difficulties of rhythmical art. He had himself to
invent the form, language, and poetical style. In his
compositions as well as his life, two separate and
characteristic epochs are perceptible: one of frenzy,
frivolity, love matters and pleasure, the other presents
peace of the soul, resignation, and a serene, religious
feeling.
He was born in Siczyn, in 1530, in Great Poland.
Desiring more information he traveled in the south of
Europe, in order to get a better knowledge of classical
antiquity, and after his return was advanced to many
high offices of the state, but he resigned them all for
the sake of retirement and peace.
Kochanowski wrote also in Latin, and his poetry in
that language was considered superior to that of any of
his contemporaries. His poems are full of beauty, and
the melodious flow of his verse is truly delightful.
Although his writings are various, his reputation is prin-
cipally founded upon his " Laments " (Treny), in which
he mourns the loss of his little daughter Ursula, whom
42 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
he represents as gifted, intelligent and lovely; his com-
positions overflow with expressions of passionate grief.
Other gems, like the song on " St. John's Eve,"
" Nothing Sure in this World," etc., are admired to the
present day. He also wrote songs from Horace and
from Greek anthology, translated Virgil's "JEneid,"
and Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered." His poem on
John Tarnowski, the celebrated Polish hero, is an epic
which entitles him to the highest rank as an author of
heroic poetry. Kochanowski also printed a drama,
"The Greek Ambassadors," in hexameter measure.
His prose works are scarcely less numerous than his
poetical, and are equally distinguished for their grace
and purity of style. He died in 1584.
THE GREATNESS OF GOD.
O God! What wilt Thou for Thy gifts from us
For Thy unmeasured goodness bounteous ?
No church contains Thee, for Thou fillest space —
Ocean and Earth, and Heaven Thy dwelling place.
We cannot give Thee gold, for gold is Thine,
All earthly treasures bear Thy seal divine.
Praise we can give Thee from a grateful heart,
Thou who above us and beyond us art!
Thou art the master of the world — hast reared
The heavens with all its starry orbs ensphered.
And Earth's foundations, at Thy word straightway
Arose from nothingness in green array.
The sea, at Thy commands, despite its fret,
Remains within the bounds Thy hand has set.
The countless rivers at Thy mandate flow,
Thou bid'st the night and day to come and go.
For Thee the Spring with flowers her brow adorn,
For Thee the Summer binds her ears of corn-
KOCHANOWSKI. 43
To Thee the Autumn yields both fruit and vine,
And winter wreathes red holly for Thy shrine.
The withered herbage 'neath Thy dew revives,
Beneath Thy rain the parched up grain-field thrives.
From out Thy hand all creatures take their food,
And through Thy bounty all things are renewed.
0 everlasting God! be praised therefor —
Grant us Thy grace and bounty evermore:
Shield us while here from every evil thing.
And fold us close beneath a Father's wing.
THREN I.
Come gather 'round my dwelling, tears and sighs,
Eloquent woes, and loud-voiced miseries ;
All tones of sorrow, anguish, and regret,
Hand- wringing grief, and pangs the cheeks that wet, —
Yes! gather 'round my dwelling all, and join
Your plaint, your passion, with these plaints of mine,
O'er that sweet child whom most unholy death
Hath smitten, and in one outrageous breath
Dispers'd all joy! — as when a dragon springs
On Philomela's nest, who sits and sings
Heedless, till roused by cries she flaps her wings,
Flutters around her home, and shrieking tries
To arrest the spoiler, — idle strife! She flies
On wearied wing ; in vain — the abandoned one
Becomes in turn a prey — I'll weep alone,
Weep bitterest tears. Vain too, 'tis vain I know, —
All is irreparably vain below; —
We only grasp delusions, life's a cheat
Of new deceit, but link'd to old deceit.
1 know not which is vainer, — if to bear
And struggle with our grief in mute despair,
Or give the anguish passionate vent, as here.
44 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
THREN VII.
Thou angel child! thy mournful dress before me
Throws bitter sorrow o'er me;
Thy little ornaments of joy and gladness
Awake a deeper sadness.
Never again to wear your splendors, — never;
All hope is fled forever!
A sleep, a hard and iron sleep, hath bound thee,
Dark night has gather'd round thee.
Thy golden belt is dim; thy flower-wreathed tresses
Scattered. Thy summer dresses
Which thy poor mother wrought; she had array' d thee
For love, and we have laid thee
In the tomb's bridal bed; and now thy dower
Is a funeral flower,—
A little shroud, — a grave. Sweet child! thy father
Some odorous hay shall gather,
To pillow thy cold head. Death's dormitory
Holds thee, and all thy glory.
THREN IX.
My gentle child! and art thou vanished? Thou
Hast left a dreary blank of sadness now;
Our house though full is desolate and lone
Since thy gay spirit and its smiles are gone !
We heard thy*tongue's sweet prattle, and thy song
Echoed in every corner all day long.
Thy mother never grieved, and anxious care
Ne'er rack'd thy father's thoughts while thou wert there ;
Now hers — now mine — thy childish, fond caress —
The overflow of youth and tenderness.
But all is vacant now, — all dull and dead;
All peace, and hope, and laughing joy are fled;
Our home possess'd by ever present grief,
And the tired spirit vainly seeks relief.
KOCHANOWSKI. 45
THREN X.
Whither, O whither fled ! in what bright sphere
Art thou, my Ursula, a wanderer?
Say, has thou wing'd above yon heavens thy flighty
A cherub midst the cherubim of light?
Dwell'st thou in Eden's garden? — or at rest
Reposing midst the islands of the blest?
Doth Charon waft thee o'er the gloomy lake,
And bid thee waters of oblivion take?
I know not; but I know my misery
Is all unknown, is all a blank to thee —
Thy gentle form, thy angel thoughts, where now?
A nightingale of paradise art thou ;
Thy moral taints all purified — if taint
Could stain the spirit of so fair a saint;
Thou art returned to that same hallow'd spot
Thou didst make holy when earth knew thee not.
But wheresoe'er thou be, compassionate
My misery. If this terrestrial state
Be closed upon thee — pity still — and be
A dream, a shadow, something yet to me!
THREN XIII.
Would thou hadst ne'er been born — or being born
Hadst left me not, sweet infant ! thus forlorn ;
I have paid lasting woe for fleeting bliss —
A dark farewell, a speechless pang like this;
Thou wert the brightest, fairest dream of sleep;
And as the miser cherishes his heap
Of gold, I held thee ; soon 'twas fled, and nought
Left but the dreary vacancies of thought,
That once was blessedness. And tlwii are fled.
Whose fairy vision floated in my head
And play'd around my heart. And thou art gone,
Gone with my joys; and I am left alone;
46 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Half of my soul took flight with thee, the rest
Clings to thy broken shadow in my breast.
Come raise her tombstone, sculptor. Let there be
This simple offer to her memory.
" Her father's love, — his Ursula lies here,
His love, alas! his tears, his misery.
Thine was a barbarous mandate, death ! The tear
I drop for her, she should have shed for me."
The following epitaph was written on his elder
daughter, who soon followed Ursula to the tomb:
Thou Anna! too, thy sister's track has trod,
And prematurely sought death's dark abode;
Grief soon shall call your father to his God,
To brighter worlds beyond life's dismal road.
FROM CANTO XIII.
Sweet sleep! sure man might learn to die from thee,
Who dost unravel all death's mystery;
Come, spread thy balmy influence o'er my soul,
And let it soar, beyond the world's control,
Up to the realms where morning has its birth,
Down to the abyss whence darkness wraps the earth,
Where time has piled its everlasting snows,
Where parch'd by sunbeams not a fountain flows;
Oh, let it count each bright and wandering star,
Or trace its mazy pilgrimage afar;
Sit in the center, while each circling sphere
Pours its aerial music on the ear ;
Drink of the o'erflowing cup of joy and peace,
While the tired body sleeps in weariness;
No dreams to hang upon its mortal breath ;
And so — undying — let it taste of death.
KOCHANOWSKI 47
TALES OF ST. JOHN'S EVE; OR, SOBÓTKA FIRE.*
When the first sunbeams Cancer fill
And tuneful nightingale is still,
In Czarny las\ from older days
Sobotka's fire is wont to blaze.
The neighboring swain, the distant guest,
Around the sacred fire have prest;
The orchards with the joyous sound
Of three gay fiddlers laugh around.
On the green turf they take their seat, .
Where twice six maidens fair and neat,
Their ornaments and dress as one,
And girdled with the same bright zone,
And skill'd in dance, are all the throng;
And all are skill'd in gentle song;
To all the call of music rings,
And thus the foremost maiden sings:
First Maiden.
Sisters! the fire is blazing high,
And all proclaims festivity;
Now join your friendly hands to mine,
And let our mirthful voices join.
* In Poland, as in most Catholic countries, St. John's Day is a
time of great festivity, and in the evening the Poles are accustomed
in their meadows, and particularly by the side of rivers, to light
large fires, and to dance round them singing ancient songs. Koch-
anowski, to whom the Black Forest belonged as an hereditary pos-
session, used to gather the youths and maidens together in order to
celebrate the festival in the very manner in which he has described
it. Niemcewiz has published a drama called " Kochanowski," and
there introduced the old poet with the nymphs singing around him.
f Czarny las— the Black Forest,
48 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Sweet night! be fair and tranquil now,
No rain-storm rage, no tempest blow; —
Sweet night ! where we may watch and wake
Until the dawn of morning break,
We learnt it from our mothers — they
From theirs, — for centuries far away;
Upon St. John's joy-rousing night
Sobotka's festal fire to light.
Youths, reverence now, while ye behold
Mementoes of the days of old ;
Let gleeful hours breathe joy again,
And gladness revel now and then.
Their festal moments they enjoy'd,
Yet wisely all their time employ'd;
Each bore its fruits and gratitude,
Pour'd forth its praise to heaven all-good.
But now both late and hard we toil,
Our festivals are but turmoil:
Our gains are neither much nor sure,
And though not pious we are poor.
Come sister! then, this holy night
Is with old time's resplendence bright;
Blaze! blaze anew, Sobotka's fire!
Till lull'd by song the night retire.
Second Maiden.
This is my fault; I'll guilty plead.
I love to dance, — I love indeed.
Come, tell me, neighbors, does the love '
Of dancing all your spirits move?
I see your smiles, — your smiles betray
Your sympathy in what I say;
KOCHANOWSKI. 49
Come, join the round; why sit ye still?
And dance and leap with hearty will.
I spring, I leap, I cannot be
A statue; and 'tis sweet to rne
To hear the beating tambourine;
No mortal could keep still, I ween.
Oh, thou art mighty, graceful one,
That wakest music's thrilling tone;
The village listens to thy lay,
It calls, we hear, and swift obey.
Here, midst the crowd, each maid may start,
Who is the empress of thy heart: —
Say, is she here? Oh, why inquire?
She is not here, — thy heart's desire.
No! join our song; thy twinkling feet
Some other twinkling one's may meet;
And here, amidst our joyous band,
Some maid may yet invite thy hand.
To man, to man alone, has heaven
The privilege of laughter given ;
And this, and this alone, has he
In proof of noble ancestry.
Oh, it were foolish, — it were vain,
So high a privilege to disdain;
And let the wretch go whine and weep
Who mirth's gay revel dares not keep.
Laugh on ! laugh on ! and though at nought,
Still laughter is a pleasant thought:
Laugh at my folly, or my sense ;
Laugh on! laugh on! on some pretense.
3
50 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
I am not sad ; I can't be sad.
Be, maidens all, like me, — be glad;
For sorrow wrinkles o'er the brow
Ere time tells when, or thought knows how.
But health and youth delight to stay-
Where youth is glad and age is gay;
Where years may hasten as they will,
And eld is in its boyhood still.
Come follow, circle — all around,
Let the light song of joy rebound;
And maiden sing! be ready, — thine
The task to waken notes like mine.
Fourth Maiden.
The fairest flow'rets of the mead
I wreathe in garlands for thy head :
For thee, for none but thee, who art
The very empress of my heart.
Oh, place upon thy graceful brow
The blooming wreath I offer now ;
So let me in thy bosom rest
As thou dost well within my breast.
There's not a moment but doth bring
Thy memory upon its wing;
Sleep cannot drive thy thoughts from me,
For when I sleep I dream of thee.
And may I hope thou dost not deem
Me worthless of thy heart's esteem;
That thou wilt hear my passion's tone
And recompense it with thine own?
KOCHANOWSKI. 51
But oh, my tongue cannot conceal
The thoughts, the fears, the doubts I feel,
That other longing eyes may stray
O'er charms so beautiful, so gay.
O maiden! if those charms are mine,
Veil, veil, from all those charms of thine;
For it were madness should they move
Other impassioned youths to love.
All other ills I'll calmly share, —
Injury and insult I can bear;
But not to see another dwell
In thine eyes' sunshine, — that were hell.
Twelfth Maiden.
Sweet village! peace and joy's retreat!
Oh, who shall tune thy praise of song?
Oh, who shall wake a music meet
Thy smiles, thy pleasures to prolong!
Bliss dwells within thy solitude,
Which selfish avarice never stains;*
Where thought and habit make us good,
And sweet contentment gilds our gains.
Let others seek a dazzling court,
Where treachery poisons eye and ear;
Or to the troubled sea resort,
With death and danger ever near.
Let others sell their tongues for hire,
With falsehood and with trick delude;
Or fame or victory's wreath acquire
By deeds of darkness and of blood.
* Usury was considered a most degrading vice among the old
Slavonians.
52 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
The ploughman tills the fertile field,
His children bless his daily care ;
While the rich fruits his labors yield,
His well-contented household share.
For him the bee its honey stocks,
For him its gifts the orchard holds;
For him are shorn the fleecy flocks ;
For him the lambkins fill the folds.
He gathers from the generous meads
Their offering to his annual store,
And winter with her snow-storms leads
Repose and pleasure to his door.
Around the fire they tell their tales,
The songs are sung with smiles and glee;
The lively dance * again prevails,
The cenar and the goniony, f
At twilight's hour the swains repair
To where the crafty foxes hie ;
The hare, the thoughtless fowls they snare,
And aye! return with full supply.
Or in the stream the baited hook,
The light and treacherous net they fling ;
While near the gently echoing brook
The warblers of the forest sing.
The cattle seek the watery mead,
The shepherd sits in solitude,
While to his gay and rustic reed
Dance all the nymphs that grace the wood.
* Bowing dance. The old Polonaise, something like a minuet.
f Amusements of the Poles. The Cenar perhaps may be trans-
lated Blind Harry, which is now called in Poland Ślepa Babka, and
in Lithuania Zmurki. Goniony may be rendered Hide and Seek.
The whole of this poem is popular throughout Poland.
KOCHANOWSKI. 53
At home the housewife's busy hands
The evening's frugal meal provide:
'Tis all the produce of her lands;
No wish is breathed for aught beside.
She counts the herds; she knows the sheep
When from the pasture meads they come;
Her busy eyes can never sleep;
Abroad they watch, — direct at home.
The little children reverent bow
And ask an aged grandsire's love,
Who tenderly instructs them how
In peace and virtue's path to move.
So rolls the day, — but many a sun
Would sink his chariot in the sea,
Were I to end the tale begun
Of rural joy and revely.
EXCERPTS.
However poor and scanty be your fare,
Forsake not smiling hope for deep despair.
That sets to-day the last sun do not fear,
A brighter day to-morrow may appear.
The nightingale sings on the tree, although
• Her heart is aching, — full of tender woe;
'Tis often thus with man, O Lord! he cheers
His sinking heart with hope and sings through tears.
(*) All things in this poor world of ours, 'tis true,
Are tangled mysteries without a clue ;
And he, however wise, who attempts to solve them will
Encounter darker, deeper, stranger mysteries still.
* Translation of the four lines under the portrait of Kochanowski.
54 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
KLONOWICZ.
" Fabian Sebastian Klonowicz (Acernus) was per-
haps the greatest Polish satirist of the sixteenth cen-
tury. He united Kochanowski's feeling with Key's
satiric spirit, but was superior to both in the arrange-
ment of subject-matter. The most noted of his literary
productions are " Memoirs of Polish Kings and Princes
in Epigrams," " Judas's Bags; or, The Acquisition of
Wealth Dishonestly," u Sepulchral Complaints on the
Death of John Kochanowski," "Flis; or, The Floating
of Vessels Down the Eiver Vistula," " The Conflagra-
tion, and the Exhortation To Quench the Same; or,
the Prophecy as to the Downfall of the Turkish
Power."
A disinterested lover of truth, Klonowicz boldly at-
tacked misdeeds without regard to persons or their
social connections. Persecution did not affect his
moral powers nor stifle his inclination to satirize, on the
contrary, it only incited him the more and strength-
ened his spirit of criticism. Strong in didactic poetry,
he possessed no great talent for the lyrics. In his
didactics he exhibits superiority of reason over imagi-
nation and feeling; with him thought was superior to
the manner of expression.
In his " Flis," that is, watermen floating boats down
the Vistula, we perceive altogether a different phase of
this poet's writing. The subject being out of the com-
mon track of his former experiences, his mind becomes
more easy and lively, and his poetical figures more pict-
uresque. He describes his impressions and his feelings
caused by witnessing this novel sight, and unlike his
former compositions there is not a shadow of satire in
KLONOWICZ. 55
the whole poem. It is supposed that there is not a
poem in the Polish language, written during the reign
of Sigismunds, which preserves the national features
and the coloring stronger than the " Flis."
" The Bags of Judases " is a peculiar satire, paint-
ing with an artistic brush different sorts of people,
who by usurious and dishonest practices, their power,
artfulness, flattery and stratagems, and by assumed
magnanimity deceive and cheat the weaker part of
humanity.
Zealous and ardent in the defense of what was good
and noble, he boldly attacked misrule and abuse of
power of the officials, bribery and avaricious cupidity
of the high dignitaries; in fact he pursued with his sat-
ires all who were defrauding the republic.
His "Complaints" are only imitations of Kocha-
nowski's Threns on the death of his daughter Ursula,
with this difference, Kochanowski's complaints flowed
from an aching heart overflowing with grief that only
a father can feel, but Klonowicz wrote them straight
along, preserving the apparent coolness; for that rea-
son his complaints do not touch the feeling nor call forth
even a sigh — because sighs did not produce them, nor
were they bedewed with tears.
Klonowicz was born in 1551, in Great Poland, in a
village called Sulmierzyce, in the palatinate of Kalish,
and received his education in the Academy of Cracow,
where he was made doctor of philosophy. He traveled
in Hungary and Bohemia, Dantzig and Lemberg, where
he spent four years. In 1580 he went to the city of
Lublin, where he was a counsellor and judge of Jewish
affairs, and finally became the mayor. He also held
an office at Isary, the property of Benedictine monks,
wherein sprung a great friendship between the
56 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
abbot and afterward a bishop of Kijew, Wereszczyń-
ski, and it is to this intimacy that we are indebted for
the production of his "Flis." Having written against
the Jesuits he was bitterly persecuted by them and
somewhat apostatized from the faith. Then again he
incurred the displeasure of the inferior nobility, his
former companions, and the Jews. As if to complete
his misfortunes he was constantly harassed by his
wasteful and wayward wife, who poisoned his life and
brought him to abject poverty. He died in an hospital
in 1608.
His works were published in Cracow, Leipsic, and
Chełmno. The latest editions are those of Turowski,
1858, and Weritzlewski, 1861.
MERITS OF POLAND.
Poland is rich in green and fertile lands
That in God's bosom, as it were, seem thrown,
What cares the Pole for ocean or its strands?
Content, he ploughs his own.
Here Ceres, harvest goddess, wandered by
After she left her own Sicilian plain,
Here fields of rye abound, and bastion high
Loom up the stacks of grain.
In Poland, high, commodious barns arise,
With harvest bounty amply filled and stored,
Here, for the jolly peasant will suffice
Of rye, a goodly hoard !
Let who will praise the fertile Asian fields,
The yellow maize of Egypt and the Nile,
Upon our shore the oat abundance yields,
For many a mile and mile.
KLONOWICZ. 57
Game is abundant, cattle horned abound,
Fat oxen, horses, sheep with lengthy coat,
And heifers graze within the meadows 'round,
Beside the frisky goat !
From out his herds the farmer gets his teams,
Makes clothing for himself, and servants, too,
And of fresh meat, and milk-meat as it seems,
There is no end thereto.
Then, who could count the flocks of cackling geese,
The greedy ducks the swan whose whiteness charms,
The chickens, too, whose brood each day increase,
And travel 'round the farms.
Of dishes rich a great variety
We get, and dainty food the dovecot gives,
How pleasant 'tis the bacon flitch to see
Suspended 'neath the eaves!
Then, too, the things we gather in the wood,
God's bounty to the open-handed Pole,
He who desires to use these gifts of good
Are welcome to the dole.
Through field and wood flit herds of graceful deer,
On trees the birds sing out their countless lives,
And the industrious bee his honey'd cheer
Bears homeward to the hives.
As to the fish, a million of them speed
Through pond and lake and river seaward bound,
Nor lack the Poles for anything they need,
With much abundance crowned.
Hence, I know not why you should grasp for more
My brother Pole, with such productive soil, —
Why should you seek to gather to your store
Of foreign lands the spoil?
58 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
MIASKOWSKI.
Kaspar Miaskowski, a flowery poetical writer.
Although his style is somewhat hard and less correct
than that of some of his contemporaries, he excels
them in bold poetic flights. The most eminent of his
compositions are: "The Slavonian Hercules," "The
Pilgrim of Easter-Day," "Penitential Elegy," "Duma
on the Death of John Zamoyski," " Invitation to Sor-
row," etc. He sings of wars and warriors, and com-
plains of misrule of the country, impunity and pleas-
ures; but his religious songs are superior to his worldly
ones, yet he exhibits more ardor than simplicity and
gracefulness. His religious compositions are perme-
ated with a true and sincere spirit of piety. As to his
language, it is strong and pithy; but occasionally he
is misty and expresses himself in an unusual way.
Miaskowski was born in 1549 in Great Poland. He
lived in close friendship with Gębicki, bishop of
Kujawy, Opaliński, bishop of Posen, and Herburt, the
proprietor of Dobromil. He died in 1622.
His writings entitled ' ' Collection of Rhymes " were
published in Cracow in 1612, in Posen 1622, and the
latest in Posen 1855 and in 1861.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN DEATH AND A YOUNG
MAIDEN.
Young M. 0 Death! why dost thou whet thy scythe anew?
Death. To cut the flower that blithely drinks the dew.
Young M. Why wilt thou cut it now so ruthlessly,
Nor wait awhile its perfect charm to see?
Death. Such early flowers most fragrant are and sweet,
To me most grateful for my chaplet meet.
MIASKOWSKI.
59
Young M. Know'st thou the sickle reaps but ripened grain?
Death. After the storm green herbage on the plain
Is likewise leveled.
Young M. Not magnanimous
Is it to fell a tender blossom thus.
Death. It were transgression did I leave the one
That God has called for ; nay, it must be done.
Young M. The pangs of death youth can but ill endure.
Death. But the more innocent youth is, and pure,
Swift as the arrow flying to the mark
Will it be wafted up beyond the dark.
Young M. But I have scarce begun to pay the debt
Unto my parents for their kindness yet,
Because my years have been so very few ;
Let me remaining love and serve them too,
Nor leave them in their sorrow mourning me.
Death. *That is not much for them, — but as for thee,
Thou wilt the better reach them through thy love
When in God's presence thou shalt kneel above
With hands uplifted in unceasing prayer
Before the throne, and ask for them His care,
That they may close their eyes in peace at last,
Untroubled by the shadows I cast.
Young M. If so, O Death ! I put away my fear,
My hope grows stronger and my sight more clear.
Death. Then I will pause no more, — to Paradise
This stroke shall send thee ! thus the body dies,
But the pure soul with living faith astir
Is wafted heavenward, there to minister.
WHO IS A TRUE SAILOR?
He is not a sailor true who sails
Over tranquil waters with favoring gales;
But he who can skillfully storms outride
Is the conqueror true with courage tried.
60 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SZYMONOWICZ.
Simon Szymonowicz was the first Polish poet who
wrote pastorals in his native tongue. Not following
the poetic bend of Kochanowski he chose his own origi-
nal way, and wrote upward of twenty pastoral poems.
He did not imitate Yirgil, Spanish, or the poets of
southern France, but took as his specimen Theocritus,
and at the same time continuing to fall in his own way
he created an original manner of his own. Szymono-
wicz composed purely national pastorals, full of truth
and harmony. After Theocritus he may be considered
as one of the greatest writers of idyllics. Sometimes
he exceeds even Yirgil. He understood very well that
in order to create an original pastoral it was necessary
for him to approach the national songs. But he did
not exactly make them lyrical; on the contrary, he bent
them down more to the dramatic form. As to his ver-
sification it has a great resemblance to the versification
of to-day. He turns easily from line to line, but cares
not for the richness in rhyme.
Szymonowicz deserves all the praise for the sweet-
ness of language and great facility of expression. He
mixes in the conversation of Polish shepherds the songs
of Theocritus, and in a curious way painting the customs
of his age and country mixes the Greek mythology.
This fault will show itself less striking when we remem-
ber that many learned Poles in those days were well
acquainted with ancient literature, and it was for them
Szymonowicz mostly sung.
Szymonowicz was born in 1557, at Lemberg, and
was educated at the Academy of Cracow. He traveled
much, and visited Rome. King Stephen crowned him
SZYMONOWICZ. 61
with a poetic wreath. He afterward became the secre-
tary of Chancellor Zamoyski, who conferred upon
him the estate of Czernce, near the city of Zamość, and
when dying he intrusted the education of his son
Thomas to him. Pope Clement VIII sent him in 1593
a wreath, and Sigismund III ennobled him, and made
him poet laureate. He died in 1629.
Szymonowicz published several religious dramas, of
which { ' Joseph the Chaste " obtained the most celebrity.
SIELANKA* I. (PASTORAL.)
PASTORAL ECLOGUE.
" Kozy, ucieszne kozy, ma trzodo jedyna! "
DAPHNIS.
Goats of my flock, my sole possessions come,
'Mid meadows, nut tree, brushwood make your home;
Eat the green leaves, the tender sprouts, and here
By the still waters I'll repose me near,
And lull to rest my grief by sleep, or song ;
My Phyllis has disturb'd the calming throng
Of gentle thoughts. 0 cruel! whatsoe'er
Fate rules, the heart must feed on and must bear.
Thou hast forgotten all, my broken joy,
My soul's distraction, and the sharp annoy
Of a corroding chain; desire intense,
Faith-plighted, passionate love and confidence.
For thee my orchards bore their fruits: I bid
My folds supply the milk, and every kid
And every snowy lamb was thine. For thee
I track'd through the woods the honey-bearing bee.
And I was wholly thine. My ceaseless lays
Waked thousand shepherds' voices in thy praise.
* Derived from sieło (village).
62 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
For thou wert erst unknown, or unesteem'd;
They called thee a mean maiden, and they deem'd
Thy bright eyes a black gypsy's ; but my lyre
Gave glory to thy stately footsteps, fire
To thy shrewd glances ; thou wert tall and straight
As the unchanging fir-tree, and thy gait
Became majestic; roses and snow-milk
Painted thy cheeks ; thy hair was softest silk,
Coral thy lips, and pearls thy teeth: applause
Everywhere greeted thee; — and I the cause —
I tuned thy charms to song: and my reward
Is thy contempt, and the enamored bard
Is left to misery. While the noontide ray
Gilds with its brightness all the charms of day,
While in the woodlands birds and flocks repose,
And from its toils the weary heifer goes,
While the green lizards 'round their dwellings green
Play joyous, I am left to mourn unseen
O'er shattered hopes and shipwreck'd thoughts. I try
To appease their busy tumult fruitlessly.
The lion hunts the wolf — the wolf pursues
The goat — the goat is pleased among the dews
Of the red heath: my sorrow clings to thee; —
All have their passions and pursuits ;— none free
From the indwelling worm of grief. I caught
A pair of lovely deer, to whom I taught
Obedience; from my goats they drank their food;
I weaned them from their savage solitude;
And many a maiden covets them ; — but thou
Think'st all my offerings poor and worthless now.
Hark! for the woods are full of music! See
O'er the gay fields the flocks sport joyously!
How blest we here might dwell ; how calmly go
To the cold boundary of life's toils below.
Wouldst thou but smile upon my humble cot,
And from thy gentle bosom chase me not.
SZYMONOWICZ. 63
Here the soft mosses o'er the grottoes grow,
And shades and woods repose, and streamlets flow
O'er stony beds; the poplars tall, the wide
And ample lindens; elms and oaks, the pride
Of centuries. But without thy soothing voice
No streams harmonious roll, no woods rejoice,
No charms are charming. Wherefore should I be
So worthless, so indifferent, love, to thee?
I look'd into the glassy stream, I sought
Some hidden cause of thy ungenerous thought,
None could I find. My sheep are in the field,
They feed, they prosper; and my goat flocks yield
Annual increase. I have a rich supply
Of milk, and I am skill'd in poetry
And the sweet lyre, even like that swain of old,
Amphion, watching o'er his ravish'd fold
And waking song; while at his wild harp's sound
The woods and all their tenants danced around.
It matters not ; my song is vain and vain
AIL my bewailing: I must bear the pain
Unmurmuring, for my murmurs are to thee
A selfish triumph, and thy cruelty
Nothing can soften. Dost thou scorn me? Who
Possesses that false heart that once was true?
Laugh on, laugh on! A lion's whelp art thou,
And I a silly lamb. My ice-cold brow
The grave's dull earth shall soon be crumbled over,
And this shall be my epitaph of woe: —
" The cruel Phyllis has destroy'd her lover."
64 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SIELANKA XIV.
CZARY (WITCHCRAFT).
THE JEALOUS WIFE.
Three nights have pass'd since he left me here,
And something is amiss, I fear;
Yes, surely something is amiss;
And what he does, and where he is,
I can't divine ; and who can bear
The throb of doubt and woe like this!
Thestyli, bring for magic's rites
The awful tools — to-night, to-night
My heart shall summon witchcraft's sprites,
And revel in the wild delight.
Why did he marry, thus to leave me?
He well may grieve, who thus could grieve me.
I'll pour perdition on the maid
Who first his faithless passion sway'd:
She wounded me, it shall return,
Canker'd within her heart to burn.
Moon! I conjure thee — thou art pure;
Yet when thou know'st my wrongs, thy eyes,
Pitying the miseries I endure,
Will show the midnight's mysteries
To me the wretched ! I was chaste
And lovely; from my parent's home
He bore me, in his scorn to waste
Affection's blush and passion's bloom;
A wife unstained, a faithful mate,
He leaves me to be desolate.
Pledged faith! Avenge, avenge me now!
Thou God above ! look down below !
He sees thee not, he knows thee not,
SZYMONOWICZ. 65
Be shame and wretchedness his lot!
His heart is scared — his thoughts rebel-
Now scathe him with the fires of hell!
'Tis an unholy task, I know;
But grief is deaf — it must be so:
I know damnation's fiends await
Those who would tear the veils of fate.
It must be so, I cannot say, —
Come tardy Thestyli, obey!
Pour white millet on the pan,
Shake it o'er the glowing fire
Fan the blazing caldron, fan, —
Stronger the flame must burn, and higher.
Husband turn, to thy wife's desire:
Mighty magic, conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come!
He burns my heart; — on his head I burn
The crumbled leaves of the blister tree;
And as the leaves to ashes turn,
So let his heart burn scorchingly.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come!
I melt the wax in the furnace heat: —
As the earth is softened by summer's rain.
So let him dissolve in a burning sweat,
And pass into dew for his cold disdain.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come !
I turn the spindle: — I fain would turn
His faithless heart. No rest shall light
On his anxious soul ; and visions stern
Shall be his by day, and dreams by night.
5
66 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come!
My head-dress in three-fold knots I tie,
And my hair in tresses; so bind his soul;
Let them tangle ; until his heart shall fly
From unhallow'd passion's fierce control.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come!
Place in the vessel a midnight bat,
Let it burn, let it burn, and the magic spe
Shall bear him to torments worse than that,
Oh, would I could add the fire of hell !
Mighty magic! conduct him home;—
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come !
These poisonous weeds to a loathsome toad
Transforms an old woman. Away, away
Through the air on a fiery pole she rode : —
Burn — burn — he cannot resist their sway.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come:
I h.ave a 'kerchief, which erst in dance,
When I was a maid, he threw at me,
While wet with the dew of his countenance: —
As his sweat, the foam of his mouth shall be.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; —
My grief is mad, — come, husband, come!
Grits boil in this apron — boil! It boils!
No fire is there! the spell succeeds.
He comes! he comes! to reward my tons;
I hear the barking hounds through the reeds.
I hear him knock. The boilings cease,
SZYMONOWICZ. 67
The howling dogs are now at peace.
Tis he! 'tis he! they knew him well,
They knew him by their eager smell.
So punish'd, he will, perhaps, improve,
But shall I welcome him with love,
Or wait till he has rested? He
Is panting hard — 'twas marvelously
Well done, — for force must act on will,
Where will rebels. Fire, brighten still !
Oh, aid me, mighty craft! till grief
In dark revenge obtain relief.
Burn, tendons! tell me when they smoke: —
So may the accursed members shrivel
(As when my heart in anguish broke)
Of that seducing fiend of evil.
Kevenge, revenge, dark craft! till grief
In ample vengeance find relief.
Now strip these rags at my behest,
Her corpse through dirt let hangman draw.
Let fiery pincers tear her breast,
And to the hounds her body throw.
So aid me, mighty craft! till grief
In dark revenge obtain relief.
Thou owl! that hootest through the wood,
In vain thou shalt no longer hoot, —
Before, behind, in solitude,
And through the world screech ' Prostitute ! '
So aid me, mighty craft! till grief
In full revenge obtain relief.
Spit thrice, and as the spittle falls,
Curse her ; and let her face be thick
With plague spots, — sores, and wounds and galls
Pollute her: let her foul hands pick
68 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
• The living worms that o'er her creep; —
Then rot upon pollution's heap.
My ears with music ring. I start!
0 thou hast triumph'd, mighty art!
Vengeance upon her head descend!
Be welcome — welcome now my friend!
But he is come — is come at last.
He came half-booted — came in haste.
1 pity — but forgive. Indeed
The heart is glad he caused to bleed.
EPIGKAMS.
THE HARE.
The hounds pursue me in their cruel course ; —
I turn'd; I saw the huntsman from his horse
Fall death-struck to the ground. So perish all
Who plot, or see unmoved another's fall.
THE WOLF.
Ye drag me through the village, peasants ! G-ood !
I have a thousand brothers in the wood: —
Yes ! yes ! insult the dead ! My life you rive,
But thousands to avenge me are alive.
THE OLD COCK.
In my young days full many a fight I won ;
But I am old, and all my glory's gone.
The young subdue me, and the vulture's throat
Is now my tomb. I can avenge it not.
ZIMOROWICZ. 69
ZIMOKOWICZ.
Simeox Zimokowicz was born at Lemberg (Leopol)
in 160J:. Xone of his poetical compositions were
printed during his lifetime. Being touched by symp-
toms of incipient consumption he hurried in writing
up the " Roxolanki " — that is to say the Russian
maidens present at the wedding of his brother Bar-
tholomew. These interesting compositions, although
original, are partly imitations of Horace and Anacreon;
they show a strong pen and elicit much poetical beauty.
He also wrote many songs, but all his compositions are
permeated with youthfulness. His selection of sub-
jects and poetical colors shows a young man who feels
the worth and charms of life. He had a great admira-
tion for Szymonowicz and imitated him, but possessed
more poetical force. He also translated Moschus.
Zimorowicz died very young, — in his twenty-fifth
year — and was buried at Cracow, where the follow-
ing Latin inscription covers his remains :
Subter te, qui legis,
Simeox Zimorowicz Leopoliensis
Omnium Musarum et Gratiarum
Floridus Adolescens
Particulam Terrae Roxolanae
Cum calculo abjecit:
Ipse Indole, Litteris, Moribus
Annos XXV supergressus
Rediit unde venerat
Anno 1629, Die 21 Junii.
Cui
FR. MR. Lachrymas et longum Yale
Tu Supremum Have da et I.
70 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SONG.
"Widziałem cie z okieneczka."
I saw thee from ray casement high,
And watch'd thy speaking countenance;
With silent step thou glidest by,
And didst not cast a hurried glance
Upon my mean abode nor me.
Then misery smote me, — but for heaven
I should have fallen scathed and dead.
I blame thee not, — thou art forgiven;
I yet may hear thy gentle tread,
When evening shall o'ermantle thee.
The evening came, — then mantling night;
I waited till the full moon tower'd
High in the heaven. My longing sight
Perceived thee not; the damp mists lower'd^
In vain I sought thee anxiously.
Didst thou upon some privileged leaf
My name record, and to the wind
Commit it, — bid it charm my grief,
Bear some sweet influence to my mind
And set me from despairing free?
Where are the strains of music now,
The song, the dance, that morn and eve
We heard around my house, — when low
And sweet thy voice was wont to heave
Soft sighs and gentle thoughts for me ?
'Tis past, 'tis past, and in my heart
Is sorrow, silence in my ear;
The vain world's wonted smiles depart;
Joy and the springtide of the year,
Fond youth ! are scatter'd speedily.
ZIMOROWICZ. 71
Thou hast not said farewell! no sleep
Shall close my mourning eye, — the night
Is gloomy now. Go, minstrel, weep!
For I shall weep; and sorrow's blight
That scathes my heart shall visit thee.
SIELANKA.
Zephyr ! that gently o'er Ukraine art flying,
Go and salute my Maryna for me;
Whisper her tenderly, soothingly sighing
" Lo ! he has sent these soft accents to thee ! "
Why dost thou dwell, my maiden so lonely?
Why dost thou dwell in so gloomy a spot?
Think of the palace of Leopol* — only
Think, my fair maid! though thou visit it not.
There in thy tower is a window, where seated
Often thou sheddest a smile on thy swain,
There have my sighs oft an audience entreated;
Maiden, that window invites thee again.
Lady! the thought of thy absence has shaded
Even the flow'rets with sorrow and gloom;
All the bright roses and lilies are faded,
And my gay orchard is stripp'd of its bloom.
Come, my fair maid, with thy beautiful blushes,
Shine o'er our turrets, — oh, come for awhile !
Smile on us, lady; oh, smile, though Red Russia's
Twice-castled towers may deserve not thy smile.
Lo! it expects thee, its lionsf await thee,
Watching like sentinels fix'd on the height:
* Leopol is the capital of Red Russia, Roxolania, now Austrian
Gallicia.
f Lions— The arms of Leopol.
72 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Sleepless and eager to welcome and greet thee
When thy fair vision shall dawn on their sight.
Haste, maiden, haste ! scatter blessings around thee,
Laughter and wit are waiting thee here;
Courtesies, feastings and smiles, shall be found thee,
Wanderings and wassails to honor thee, dear !
Here we have centered the graces and pleasures;
Come thou, bright lady ! inherit them now.
Here Nature pours out her charms and her treasures,
Nothing is wanted, oh, nothing but thou.
SIELANKA.
"Rozyna mi w taneczku pomarańcze dała."
Rosina, while dancing, an orange convey'd,
And promised the garland that circled her head;
I gave her my hand and with love and desire
The orange was turn'd to a ball of bright fire.
It burnt like a coal from the furnace, and made
Its way to my heart, while it fever'd my head.
Rosina, my flame ! that fair orange of gold
Has kindled a passion which may not be told.
I have learnt what love is ; not Venus the fair,
But the whelp of a lioness fierce in her lair;
She- tiger of Caucasus nurtured to scorn
The hearts that are broken, and souls that are torn.
SIELANKA.
"Roxolanki Ukochane
Przez usta wasze różane."
Maid of Roxolania fair!
By your lips of roses swear,
Why your lyre's sublimest tone
ZIMOROWICZ. 73
Sings the graceful Thelegdon ?
'Tis that noblest passion's praise,
Merits, aye! the noblest lays.
Light of love whose kindling stream
Shines like morning's dewy beam;
Not so bright the dawn which shakes
Splendent ringlets when she wakes.
Not so rich her lips of red,
When their balmy breath they spread;
Not so glorious is her eye,
Burning in its richest dye ;
Not so modest when her face
Shadows all its blushing grace.
Yet if heaven's thick-scattered light
Seeks to be more pure, more bright,
'Tis from her their rays they'll take;
Goddess of the frozen lake,
Genii of the wintry snow,
Warm ye in her beauty's glow.
Not the immeasurable sea,
Not the tides' profundity,
Not the ceaseless years that sweep,
Not the murmurs of the deep,
Shall outlive that maiden pure,—
Shall beyond her fame endure.
Joyous hours again renew,
Songs of praise and rapture, too.
Maid of Eoxolania, praise,
Praise the fair one in your lays.
74 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
GAWIŃSKI.
John Gawiński, one of the foremost of Polish
bards, who for ease and harmonious flow of language
can be put by the side of Szymonowicz and Zimoro-
wicz. Of his poetical compositions which deserve
especial notice we can mention " The Mournful
Threns," " Pastorals," and " Epitaphs "; as also " The
Epigrams" on different subjects, "The New Pasto-
rals,"44 The Polish Yenus," " Fortune or Luck," and
" Idyls of Mopsus."
In the poetry of Gawiński the reader can discover
true pictures of life wrought with great skill and
marked by pleasing simplicity and excellence of lan-
guage.
Gawiński was born in Cracow at the commence-
ment of the seventeenth century. After finishing his
education at Cracow,in order to still further improve him-
self he lived at the court of young Ferdinand Charles,
although during the stormy reign of John Casimir he
studied law. He was compelled to grasp the sword,
and fought against the Cossacks in Ukraine. The time
of his death is uncertain.
PASTORAL (SIELANKA).
In the fair fields of Rzeczniów a glade
Was circled by a forest's budding shade ;
There Amaryllis lay, her flocks she kept,
While in the spreading shrubs in peace they slept.
There mid the branches of ancient tree
Damet and Myrtil sat and skillfully
Waked the reed's music, told the pleasing dream
Of love and courtship's joys; — and this their theme :
GAWIŃSKI. 75
Damet.
Gay o'er the meadows wends the songful bee,
From flower to flower swift glancing sportively,
Robbing their hidden sweets; yet if decay
Wither the flower, she turns and speeds away.
I am a bee, but seek the sweets whose taste
Is fresh and fragrant, spring-begotten chaste: —
Sweet Amaryllis! my fair rose thou art;
But know, no wither'd rose can charm the heart.
Myetil.
A snow-white turtle on a fountain's side
Bends o'er the mirror stream with joy and pride;
He pecks his plumes, and in the water clear
Washes his silvery feathers; fluttering there
He sees another dove, and nods and coos,
And flaps his wings. Poor turtledove ! amuse
Thyself with the delusion, the deceit!
Thyself thou dost bewray, thyself dost cheat.
Love has its flatteries, — has its treacheries, too,
And we're pursued when fancying we pursue.
Damet.
Silently swim the ducks upon the lake,
Silently, in the absence of the drake.
He comes! he comes! the welcoming strains begin;
Round him they crowd, and what a joyous din!
Man is the temple's prop, the temple's base,
On which is raised the pile of woman's grace.
Without him Nature is a shatter'd whole,
A lifeless life, a clod without a soul.
Myrtil.
From the deep waters Venus has its birth,
And reigns the queen of ocean and of earth.
76 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Charm'd by her influence even the fishes stray
Wandering enamor'd round her witching way,
Each fed by love and mastered by desire,
Even in the wave glows passion's busy fire.
How should I struggle 'gainst the flame when thou
Art the bright Venus that inspires me now!
Damet.
The night bird sings upon the hazel tree,
The wind sweeps by, the leaves dance murmuringly.
She speaks, — the nightingale his strains gives't o'er.
The leaves are still, the rude wind speaks no more.
Myrtil.
Fair is the rose when laughing in its bud,
Fair o'er the plain towers the tall cedar wood.
She comes! the cedars and the rose are dull;
Even Lebanon bows, though proud and beautiful.
Damet.
The moon obeys the sun, and every star ....
Pays homage to the moon; the twilight far
Leads in and out the shifting days ; and so
I dwell with thee, my fair! where'er thou go.
Myrtil.
On the proud world the sun delighted beams,
Piercing the blue depth of the rolling streams.
So would I bathe me in thy azure eyes,
And drown me in thy heart's deep mysteries.
GAWIŃSKI. 77
'Twas thus the shepherds sung. The sky above
Looked smiling on their strains of eloquent love;
And Amaryllis, from the blooming thorn
Tore a white sprig their temples to adorn:
And from that hour t' enjoy their simple airs
She often came, and mixed her flocks with theirs.
BONES ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.
Traveler, our bones are bleaching on the ground,
And yet unburied. Pity not our doom.
Ours is a grave of glory, shrouded round
In virtue, and the vault of heaven our tomb.
SOLDIER SLAIN.
I fought, my land, for thee! for thee I fell;
On, not beneath, the turf I rest my head.
Witness, my country, that I loved thee well;
Living, I served thee, and I guard thee dead.
THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE LARK.
Sweet lark ! the twilight of the dewy morn
Calls me to plough, and to thy music thee.
Blessings be with us ! on thy notes be borne
Success: — I toil. I sow for thee and me.
ELIZABETH DRUŻBACKA.
78
DRUŻBACKA. 79
DRUŻBACKA.
Elizabeth Drużbacka sprung from a very respecta-
ble family of Kowalski, and occupies an important
rank in Polish literature; in fact, she must be con-
sidered as the first Polish poetess. Possessing a true
poetic feeling of the heart, she placed herself at once
in the first poetic rank of those days. She was able to
get rid of the literary contamination of that age, and
wrote in pure Polish.
Among her poems deserving especial notice are,
"The Christian History of the Princess Elefantina,"
" The Life of David," "The Praise of Forests," " The
Penance of Mary Magdalen," "The Four Seasons,"
etc. etc. Madam Drużbacka possessed an inborn
talent for poetry, but the defective taste of the age
taints some of her compositions; still, there is much
wit and beauty in her poetic productions. She was not
a learned woman, and spoke but her own native tongue,
but born with a natural inclination for writing poetry,
she exhibits great vigor of conception of thought, live-
liness of imagination, and originality in her creations.
The buoyant fancy and strong feeling united with piety
devoid of fanaticism were the chief traits of Druż-
backa.
She was born in 1687, and passed her younger days
with Madam Sieniawska, Castelane of Cracow, where
she married and became acquainted with the highest
circles of Polish society. Her husband being one of
the king's officials she lived in Great Poland. After
the death of her husband she entered the convent of
Lady Bernardines, at Tarnów, but was not initiated in-
to the order. She died in 1754.
6
80 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SPRING.
O golden season in childlike disguise,
Gay Spring ! so gratefully we feel thy smile
We needs must overlook thy vagaries
Whether thy winds blow cold or warmly wile ;
Or thou with childlike freedom dost presume
To fright with snow the flowers that earliest bloom.
But shouldst thou frighten thou wilt do no harm,
Neither with freezing cold nor sultry glare ;
Thou pleasant season! adding to each charm
An understanding with the sun and air.
Thou knowest when to warm and when to cool,
And age refreshed grows young beneath thy rule.
Thou hast the power to unbind the earth
From frosty chains and give her liberty —
A loving child to her who gave thee birth,
Her fetters fall from her when touched by thee.
And through the warmth that in thy bosom stirs
The icy grasp is loosed at length from hers.
When passes winter's dark, tyrannic sway,
From thee the earth fresh inspiration draws
Thou openest warm thoroughfares each day
Where frozen clod and hardened debris thaws.
When thy soft breath goes forth upon the Earth, •
Life conquers death in all renewing birth.
SARBIEWSKI. 81
SARBIEWSKI.
Mathew Casimir Sarbiewski, who gained much
fame as a Polish lyrist in Latin, was born in 1595. He
was especially admired for his correctness of expres-
sion and the beauty of poetic turns. He was called
the Polish. Horace in an age when the knowledge of
the Latin tongue was considered as the highest accom-
plishment/ He was so perfect in the handling of
Latin that he outstripped all other Latin poets; his
poetic flight was one of an eagle, and no one has ap-
proached Horace nearer than he.
Sarbiewski entered the Society of Jesuits in 1613,
and lectured in the college of Wilno on the rules of
oratory. He then went to Pome, where he became
very famous, and where he was crowned with a poetic
wreath by Urban VII. Returning to Poland Sigis-
mund III named him a court-preacher to his son
Laclislaus IV and chose him as his personal companion
and friend.
Sarbiewski was quite an artist on the harp, and
sang well. "With these he amused and cheered the
king, and also interested him with his instructive con-
versation. Inseparable from the king he traveled with
him not only through Poland, but also into foreign
countries. He died April 2, 1640. During his life-
time he formed many intimate friendships with the
literary men of his time, and Dr. Watts translated and
imitated many of Sarbiewski's lyrics.
Sarbiewski's works were published in many places,
such as Cologne, Wilno, Antwerp, Cracow, Paris, Bres-
lau, and London. Louis Kondratowicz, an eminent
[If
82 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Polish poet and scholar, is the translator of Sarbiew-
ski's Latin poems into Polish.
TO THE CICADA.
Thou, whose voice in the grove's silence is heard aloft,
While thou drinkest the tear-drops of the heavenly dews,
Thy sweet music, Cicada,
In thine ecstasy pouring forth.
Come! come! summer on light wheels is advancing fast,
While the hastening suns move, be they hail'd but chid
For their tarrying too < long,
When the frosts of the winter flee.
As days dawn in their joy so they depart in haste;
So flee, speedily flee; speedily speeds our bliss.
Too short are its abidings ; —
But grief lingeringly dwells with man.
TO THE POLISH AND LITHUANIAN KNIGHTS.
Poles! O let no foreign customs throw their
Scandal among you. Teach religious duties,
Laws of your country, virtues of your fathers,
Teach to your children.
Sacred your temples, — your tribunals, justice;
Peace, truth, and love dwell midst you, omnipresent;
All that is vile and all that is unholy,
Drive from your country!
Walls screen not crime, and punishment will force its
Way through the towers and through the thrice-bound portals,
Smiting the vicious. Thunderbolts but wait to
Burst on the vile one.
Painted deceit, tyrannical ambition;
Wealth-seeking lust, and luxury's excesses
Chase them far from you; let them never hold a
Throne in your bosom.
SARBIEWSKI. 83
Poverty gives to man unwonted vigor,
Teaches him patience 'neath the weight of suffering,
Arms him with courage ; but the stolen armour
Wearies, though golden.
Whether your lot be war or peace, ye Poles !
Still be united, for united brothers
Stand like a temple on a hundred pillars,
Firmly supported.
So midst the rocks the sailor in his prudence
Looks to the stars ; and so the friendly anchor
Steadies the vessel on the heaving ocean, —
Steadies it surely.
So does the bond that binds the social fabric
Strengthen; while strife and mighty fraud and rancour
Overthrow cities, threatening desolation
E'en to the mightiest.
TO LIBERTY.
Queen of brave nations : — Liberty !
What land thy favorite seat shall be?
What land more suited to thy reign
Than Poland's fertile, charming plain?
Daughter of council and of bliss
The mother and the nurse of peace;
Thou, sought midst many dangers round,
Midst more than many dangers found;
Higher than thrones thy throne we see.
Majestic more than majesty;
Thou mistress of our country's fame,
Now stop thy course, — thy smile we claim.
Arrest thy cloud-encircled car,
And linger where thy votaries are!
84 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND,
0, see upon thy Vistula
Lithuania's sons in long array,
The Lechan and Littavian ranks
Like sea-waves gathering on its banks;
No servile crowds we bring to thee,
But heirs of ancient bravery :
Sons of the North, whose blood remains
As pure as in their fathers' veins;
Untaught from faith and truth to swerve,
Train'd by the laws their king to serve,
They spurn a stranger's stern commands,
And love their land o'er other lands !
And is there ought so purely bright
As when in truth and virtue's light
Impartial Freedom deigns to shed
Her joys on prince and people's head?
Then the unfettered man disdains
Sloth's soul-debilitating chains,
And Genius, like a conqueror, flies
On to the goal and claims the prize.
No foreign calls our ranks can move;
We but obey the chief we love,
And follow where his footsteps lead,
To freedom's goal and victory's meed;
As o'er Carpathia's hoary height
Our sires achieved a glorious fight;
And on the widespread field of Thrace
Our fathers found their triumph-place;
And when our flags waved smiling o'er
The Bosphorus and the Baltic shore.
And proud Teutonia, bearing all
Her Asian spoils, was forced to fall
Before those iron columns we
Had rear'd to mark our sovereignty;
SARBIEWSKI. 85
Those mighty trophies of the brave,
The unconquerable Bolesław;
And by the Borysthene's side,
And by the Volga's current wide.
And past the Alexandrian's shrines
And to those dark Lapponian mines,
Where the fierce North wind has its birth:
We trod the far Danubian earth.
Saw old Bootes freeze his waves,
And dug for the Meotians, graves.
Are we degenerate? Shall the fame
Of our own fathers blast our name ?
Smile on our prayers, O Liberty !
And let the world thy dwelling be.
Urban* and Ferdinand combine,
O Wladislaw, their powers with thine.
And the world calls thee to confer
Her laurels on the conqueror, —
Thou, Sigismund's illustrious son,
Thou of the blood of Jagellon.
O what can darken, what delay
The glory of our future day?
Hail Wladislaw! thou hope of man,
Fav'rite of God, our Poland's van.
All hail ! our warrior senate cries.
All hail ! a people's voice replies.
A thousand lances shine around,
All hills and vales and woods resound
The song of joy. And raised above
His watery throne, his praise and love
* Urban VIII, who distinguished Sarbiewski by very marked at-
tentions, and when they parted hung around his neck a golden cross
to which a miniature of his Holiness was attached.
86 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Old Vistula shouts forth ; — their brow-
Proudly the Crapack mountains bow-
In homage.
Say what projects vast
Struggling in thy great soul hast?
For such a soul unceasing teems
With mighty thoughts and glorious dreams,
And still springs forward to the praise
Of distant deeds and future days:
Nor sloth nor luxury shall impede
That opening fame, that dawning deed;
Or quiet wisdom to o'erthrow
The dark designings of the foe,
Or splendid daring — swift and bold,
Sweeping like surges uncontroll'd,
The heir-loom of thy sires of old.
Thus did the Jagellons, they spread
Their praise, their glory and their dread —
Envied, admired, and fear'd — the son
Soon made the father's fame his own:
And envy's wing could not pursue
A flight so high and glorious, too;
The ambitious son outshone the sire,
As glory's mark ascended higher.
Till to our thought no hopes remain
Their fame and glory to maintain.
This is our noblest heritage, —
A name, bequeathed from age to age.
For thee, from centuries afar
A mingled wreath of peace and war,
Have generations waited, — now,
Wear the proud trophy on thy brow:
Make all thy father's victories thine,
With these thy gentle virtues twine ;
SARBIEWSKI. 87
Success shall show thee fairer, — woe
Shall bid thy roots yet deeper grow.
Such are Sarmatia's prayers. Her prayers
Up to the heavens an angel bears ;
On vows no chance shall e'er repeal
Eternity has set her seal.
A THOUGHT.
(From Saphics.)
He has lived long and well whose death enforces
Tears from his neighbors, — who has made his glory
Heir to himself, — rapacious time will plunder
All, all — besides it.
88 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
KONAKSKL*
Stanislaus Hieronim Konarski belongs to the
greatest practical philosophers of the age. It was he
who, having ascertained by his learning and compre-
hensive powers of the mind the vanity and absurdity
of the ways and manners of education and enlighten-
ment practiced in the period in which he lived, by his
writings scattered to the winds the darkness, reinstated
the freedom of thought, and presented to his country^
men fresher models than the old musty Latin works;
implanted into the minds of Polish youth new ideas
tending to moral improvement, and awakened the true
spirit of inquiry after learning. He struck the old
pedantism a heavy blow, introducing in its stead fresh-
ness and naturalness of expression and modern concep-
tions. His works written on the subject had a great in-
fluence on the reform of Polish literature, because they
not only treated on aesthetics but also on moral and
practical philosophy. The most prominent of these
are ' ' De Emendandis Vitiis" and ' ' Yolumina Legum. ' '
The first treats extensively of the defective style of
writing and oratory, but what is most curious and cred-
itable to him is that in order to have his criticism fall
gently upon the works of his predecessors and contem-
poraries, he very good humoredly criticised some of
his own works formerly written, and pointed out his
own defects with unsparing justice. In ' ' Yolumini de
Legum " he endeavored, with much zeal for the public
* Although not a poet was a man of eminent literary talents, and
having created a new epoch in Polish literature deserves an honored
place here.
KONARSKI. 89
good, to collect different statutes and scattered consti-
tutions into a settled code of laws. That successful
service to his country accomplished much good, and
was of itself enough to immortalize his name. In his
" Art of Correct Thinking. Without Which There Can-
not Be Correct Speaking." where, in sensible and
judicious observations he straightens out the mind of
the Polish youth by numerous and well-selected ex-
amples, adducing also specimens of beautiful and per-
fect oratory. The especial merit of this work is that
it contains a great deal of useful matter necessary to
the Polish people of those days. It was the noble aim
of the author to put down prejudices, and lit the mind
for the reception of useful truths. The fourth work of
Konarski was " Of Successful ^Tay and Manner of Ad-
vising." ^Ve can place that work among those produc-
tions of which the Polish nation has a right to be proud.
You can see in it a true citizen, whose heart burns with
love to his country, and earnestly engaged with the
welfare of his fellow- citizens. In writing this work tor
a people who were not as yet well versed in political
science, and promulgating certain truths contrary to the
common prejudices of the majority, he had to use vari-
ous methods to elucidate, explain, and adapt them to
the understanding of all. The fifth production of this
distinguished man was "Of Religion, of Honest Peo-
ple, and Against the Doctrines of Deism." wherein the
author endeavors to convince his readers that without
religion morality cannot have solid foundation; hence,
good and virtuous intentions of a community are flimsy
and uncertain unless supported by religious convic-
tions.
Taking it as a whole Konarski" s writings show
genius. His correct views in the matter of presented
90 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
subjects; his lively imagination; broad and sensible
explanations, and above all his power of philosophical
reasoning, emanating from his profound knowledge of
the subjects upon which he treats, places him in the
highest ranks of Polish writers.
Konarski was born in 1700, and received his in-
itiatory education at the institution of the Order of
Piiars, which order he entered in the seventeenth year
of his age, and against the wishes of his powerful rela-
tives.
He was soon transferred thence to the College of
Warsaw as the professor of philosophy. In the year
1725, with the advice of his uncle Tarło, the bishop of
Posen, he went to Italy, where, in the city of Rome,
he gave lectures on oratory and history. From Rome
he went to Paris, where he closely connected himself
by the ties of friendship with the celebrated Fontenelle,
the great philosopher, orator, and poet. After a lapse
of six years he returned to his country and became
professor of history in Cracow, then lie occupied the
same dignity at Rzeszów, and was made Provincial of
his order. In the year 1743 he established a boarding-
school for the youth of the nobles, or Collegium ~No-
bilium. He also established similar schools at Wilno
and Lemberg. At his Warsaw college he arranged the
building so that a part of it was appropriated exclu-
sively for dramatic representations, and dramatic plays
of the most celebrated tragic poets were there repre-
sented, especially the French: Corneille, Racine, and
Crebillon. Konarski had also a great influence in
putting down the liberum veto, receiving for the great
service the hate of second-class nobility.
In 1748 he again left his native land for other coun-
tries. He visited France and the most celebrated acad-
KOXAKSKI. 91
emies, and returning to Warsaw employed himself in
finishing his " Collegium," which was opened in 1754.
In 1719 Komorowski, the Primas, sent Konarski to
Rome in an important cause, which mission he fulfilled
with great credit to himself. He lived on terms of
friendship with the most distinguished men of his age,
and almost of all countries, who frequently sought his
advice. He was personally known to Pope Benedict
XIY, to August II and III, as also to Stanislaus Lesz-
czyński, whom he accompanied to Lotaringia (Lorraine).
In France he had insured to him by Louis XY the in-
come of two abbacies. Ranks of dignity which were
frequently offered to him he would never accept; hence,
for the bishopric by Benedict XIY, as also for the
bishopric of Przemyśl by August II, and the same dig-
nity offered him by King Stanislaus Poniatowski, in
Livonia, he only returned thanks but would not accept
of them. The king wishing to honor Konarski for his
great labors ordered a medal to be struck in his honor,
with the inscription, Sapere Auso (To him who dared
to be wise). He died in 1773.
His work, " De Emendandis Vitiis" was published
in Warsaw in 1741; " Of the Art of Correct Think-
ings also in Warsaw in 1767; " The Best Mode in
Advising" in 1760, and " Of Religion " in 1769.
92 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
JSTAPOJSZEWICZ.
Adam Stanislaus Naruszewicz, although brought up
according to the old customs of the country, was never-
theless a quick learner of the new social and political
elements which began to permeate through the higher
and more advanced social circles in Poland; hence he
may be considered as the incarnation of two different
epochs. His writings, therefore, are the depositories
of two contending intervals. In them he boldly educts
the progressive principle, fearlessly attacking the
corruption of the age and handling without gloves the
pretentions of the nobility, indolence, extravagance,
and other national defects.
As a poet he represents two sides, diametrically
opposite to each other : — one that of a panegyrist, the
other that of a satirist. He wrote odes, satires, fables,
and idyls, which in those times comprised about the
whole poetical cycle, which he considered as his own,
and which would serve him to pave the way to dis-
tinction and fame.
Although there is much of the poetic spirit in his
odes, yetas a whole, emanating from different circum-
stances, adverse to poetic inspiration and replete with
exaggerated flattery, they do not on that account pos-
sess much of poetical value. He had doubtless much
power and poetic ardor, and the spirit of his lyric
poetry could soar higher than any of his contempo-
raries. His lively and fiery imagination opened to him
a rich depository of bold and exalted thoughts; but
this life-giving ardor, this creativeness of imagination,
accompany the poet only when their incitement comes
NARUSZEWICZ. 93
from the deep feeling of truth, and when the theme
itself is worthy of poetic inspiration.
Many of his lyrics have only a semblance of decla-
mation, and a superficial luster takes place of emotion.
Their taste and style remind one of the compositions
of the sixteenth century. He speaks as a true lyrist
only when the theme is patriotic citizenship, and the
love of his country warms him up.
In his ]yric muse Naruszewicz constrains himself
to flights of fancy, and in his satires he cannot keep
away from exaggeration, though we may say that in his
satires he very properly points out national defects,
and white furnishing a great many progressive lessons,
he at the same time paints a faithful historical picture
of the blemishes of the existing social system. His
satire of "The Yoices of the Dead," as also " The
Return of the Senators," are written in an old, con-
strained style, full of ludicrous images. Naruszewicz
was very much addicted to the introduction of mytho-
logical personages, which he pours upon his readers
without stint. However, it was the failing of all the
poets of Stanislaus' Age, but Naruszewicz exceeds
them all.
In his satire "The Nobility " Naruszewicz strongly
upheld the privileges of birth ; indeed, he tried to build
a partisan wall between the two different classes which
was very distasteful even to his own kindred. In his
satire "The Folly" he represents a false devotee, or
we may say a downright hypocrite. "The Spoiled
Age " is a continual grumbling that things are not as
they should be. In his " Flattery " he ridiculed the
common national foible of court manners and the bad
influence they had on national literature. " The Lean
Litterateur " is another unique production, reminding
94 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
us of the sad epoch of superficiality when solid sciences
were not appreciated, and hence the true litterateur was
always lean and poor, and as a characteristic type it
went into a proverb.
As to idyllic compositions Naruszewicz had no great
talent. Accustomed to court life and a great friend to
a fashionable world, he could not understand nor ap-
preciate the charms of rural life; indeed, his pastorals
"The Farm-house," "The Happy Marriage," and
"Narcissus," have more of a satirical than of a pas-
toral turn. However, his Polish is pure and correct,
and in his power, freshness, and poetical imagery, he
is superior to Krasicki. Indeed, we find in his satires
many beautiful expressions, — new and pleasing turns
with which he truly enriched the Polish literature.
Naruszewicz was born in 1733, receiving first rudi-
ments of education at Pińsk. In 1748 he joined the
order of the Jesuits, which sent him to Lugdun. Re-
ceiving assistance from Prince Czartoryiski he per-
fected himself in learning in France, Italy, and Ger-
many. Returning to his own country he received the
professorship of the Cathedra of Poetry in the Academy
of Wilno, and subsequently of Warsaw. He was so
liked by the king, Stanislaus Augustus, that after the
abolition of the order he resided with him. After
receiving the abbacy of Niemencżyn he was admitted
to the coadjutorship of the bishopric of Smoleńsk.
He afterward held the office of the Clerk of the Grand
Duchy of Lithuania; finally he was made a bishop.
Stanislaus Augustus honored him with a decoration,
and ordered a medal struck with visages of Sarbiewski
and Naruszewicz. He died in 1796 at Janowce.
His works were published in Warsaw in 1778-1803,
and at Leipzig in 1835. Naruszewicz's biography was
NARUSZEWICZ. 95
written by Julian Bartoszewicz in his work u Cele-
brated Men of Poland of the Eighteenth Century,"
published in St. Petersburg in 1S53, in three volumes.
CONSULTATION OF ANIMALS.
In a corner of Africa most remote
Animals, so runs the anecdote,
Those beasts that have.hoofs and those that have claws,
Established government and laws.
With that worthy gentry all prospered well
Or so begun. I'm glad to tell
That harmony reigned throughout the land ;
And, difficult to understand,
Friendship, too, dwelled there, which you will agree
Is what we very seldom see
Among the masses of human kind
(Sorry to bring the fact to mind).
The wolf did not start from his savage lair
To devour goats, and pigs to snare ;
And not till brother in strife with brother
Begun to wrong and wound each other
Was there example harmful in the least
Set before the misguided beast.
It chanced, when hard times fell, the state
Its scanty funds to aggregate
Called council ; with care that nothing should pass
Except in justice to each class
Of animals: — asses, the goats, and sheep,
That the apportioned tax should keep
Of equal weight, 'mong the high and the low,
And the state burdens ordered so
That each could easily render his share,
The lowly and the millionaire.
96 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
With preparation and dignity great
The worthy councillors of state
A meeting called to settle as they could
These matters for the public good.
The elephant was first to speak, — said he:
"Citizen animals, most worthy!
Oxen, goats, asses, and mules, and hares, ■
Distinguished by the name each bears,
That matters to all should be without wrong,
To the meek sheep or lion strong,
I propose to you in all sincerity,
Without favor or asperity:
Let each one who thinks that in small or great
He has broken the laws of state
Contribute a mark to the treasury;
From this a great auxiliary
Will our country gain, while at the same time
You must reflect, all sorts of crime
In our country's bounds, from west to east,
From north to south, will be decreased.1'
" That perhaps might do," said the crafty fox,
Bowing most humbly to the flocks ;
A good-natured grin on his countenance spread
And wagging his yellow tail, said :
" Greater the income, in my opinion,
If young and old of this dominion
Were allowed to apprise their good degrees,
And pay a florin for each of these;
My fame for judgment I'll stake in this way,
A larger sum we could display,
Which would be with the utmost promptness paid,
And never any trouble made.
NARUSZEWICZ. 97
Because, may it please your reverence,
They'd rather pay than evidence
Transgression of the law's just scope,
Your honor sees the point — I hope."
WHO IS FOOLISH ?
He is foolish who, possessing neither strength nor heart,
With vain empty boasts acts an idle swaggerer's part.
Who with proud assumption wondrous learning will pretend,
And seek to teach a language he does not comprehend.
Or he who marries not as befits his own estate,
For to fret or be fretted will surely be his fate.
Who seeks fortune in cards, profit in a bone, nor knows
Ever that which comes easily as easily goes.
He is foolish who through craft to defraud others tries,
And seeks credit for that purpose in honesty's guise.
He is foolish who drinks when his toes are out, and lives
Beyond his income, taking all while he nothing gives.
A simpleton is he who's by trifles filled with fears,
And he who readily believes each little thing he hears.
The rich who buy on credit and let their money rust;
Foolish is the merchant who'll an idle spendthrift trust.
He is foolish who weekly his losses will bemoan,
Or weds an old woman for the money she may own.
Foolish he who with affairs of state will interfere,
Unfit to aid or council he muddles what was clear.
Who boldly of his creditor asks a loan, although
He has failed to pay a debt contracted long ago.
He is foolish who alone on paper projects makes,
Who leaves unfinished ever the tasks he undertakes.
Who's familiar with unequals shows his lack of sense,
Or who farms from a book or from school gets eloquence,
Who only speaks truth when there's no falsehood at command,
Who amusement seeks with that he does not understand,
Who pays much attention to the talk of common folk,
7
98 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Who allows a little jest his anger to provoke.
Who — but there! my paper's out, and some perhaps will say
I am making my remarks in a fault-finding way.
Pray excuse me, sirs, if I have said too much ; at times
A subject has been borne too far by my erratic rhymes.
Poets, and musicians, too, upon extremes will touch,
Often one will play too long, the other say too much.
KNIAZŃIN. 99
KNIAZNIN.
Fkancis Dyonisius Rntaznin was a poet whose
writings are characterized by pleasantness, suavity, and
purity of the heart. His vivid conceptions, combined with
great feeling, eminently qualified him for a lyric poet.
He does not soar very high, nor is he carried by sudden
flights of imagination, but whenever he follows his own
inspiration he charms the reader with his wonderful
simplicity. In that respect he may be considered as
equal, if not superior, to Karpiński, since his poetry
strikes more deeply into the heart and is richer in
colors and imagery. He wrote with great feeling and
expression.
Among his works we can mention " To a Citizen,"
" Ode on the Centennial Celebration of John Sobieski's
Yictory over the Turks at Vienna, " "To Grace,"
"Rosemary," etc. The construction of Kniaznin's
verse is peculiar to himself; concise in expression, the
selection of soft syllables and natural expression of
thought make his verses very harmonious and grateful
to the ear.
Kniaznin was born in 1750, and was brought up and
educated by the Jesuits; in fact he joined the society,
but after the abolition of the order in 1773 he again be-
came a civilian, and labored assiduously in the great
library of Załuski. After that he became a secretary
to Prince Czartoryiski at Puławy, a hospitable place,
which in those days was in reality a shelter for learned
men. The changeful events of those years, and an un-
happy love, darkened his existence and produced de-
mentia. He died in 1807.
100 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
His complete works were published in Warsaw
1828, and at Leipsic 1835.
A REVERIE.
The goddess of darkness, and silence, and dreams,
Hath spread her black wings o'er a slumbering world,
Care holdeth no longer his empire o'er man
But deep in oblivion's abyss has been hurled.
Majestic the moon riseth up in the sky,
With her maidens of honor, the stars, in her train,
The earth is in solitude gloomy arrayed,
And in silence profound reigns o'er hamlet and plain.
Such a lesson as this once could light up my soul,
And forgetting the troubles and cares of the earth
My mind on the wings of conception would fly,
And give to a thousand imaginings birth.
I hovered in joy o'er the gay land of dreams,
Gave to gladness a smile, and to sadness a tear,
And buoyed in safety on silver-winged hope,
Never let thoughts of the future with bliss interfere.
There fiery and bold as the eagle of Jove
My young spirit roved through the paths of the sky,
I gave to the wind all devices of love,
Smiled at languishing simpers, and laughed at a sigh.
But love stole within my cold heart and there placed
An image of her whose cold hardness I mourn ;
I loved her — I thought that the world was but her —
I loved — but alas! was not loved in return.
To-day e'en the ghost of my once blessed hours
Has sank in the earth, and departed from view,
And the flowers of love, to which wishes gave birth,
Have my sighs for their air, and my tears for their dew.
KNIAZŃIN. 101
For another has plucked the red rose from the stem,
And the beautiful flower in his bosom will bloom,
Whilst I, like a spirit from heaven cast out,
Am sentenced to Erebus, sorrow, and gloom.
ETERNITY.
Holy Eternity! Thou wTork of wonder!
In thy belief all virtuous hearts concur ;
Those that have in thee hopeful confidence
Paint thee in tints of rare magnificence !
While others trembling for themselves in fear
Would with doubt's gloom thy sacred light obscure.
The earth and fathomless sea
Are worthy of God's dignity,
And thou wilt forever with them endure! -
Time, in its broken and unbroken flight,
Going we perceive not how and whither,
Is only a small branch from thee grown hither,
Unfolding till it with thee unite.
RELIGION.
Religion, thou blessed and holy name!
Thy sovereignty and thy power how great!
How many virtues rare within thee wait
For hearts that can thy presence truly claim.
How happy on this earth the man may be
Whose eyes thy truth and glory can perceive;
A guard thou art for all that will believe,
A shield from sin for those that cling to thee.
In trouble, consolation lies in thee ;
Thou bindest man to God with holy chain,
Misfortune linked with hope forgets its pain !
Thou bind'st the Present with Eternity.
102 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
MORAWSKI.
Feancis Morawski differs from other poets in this
respect: that he was named " A Soldier Poet." Sub-
sequently we see his easy and unrestrained wit soaring
in his fugitive verses, but with such happy turns and
skill, and above all such humor, which in our literature
is exceptional and rare, and belongs neither to the
classic nor romantic school, that we may say he stands
by himself. Morawski's mind was very flexible, he
being a frequenter hot only at camp-societies, but also
a welcome visitor of fashionable salons, giving him an
opportunity to acquire that ease and pleasing mien
which never forsook him even to the last moments of
his life.
When he was twenty he belonged to the classic
school. Between twenty and thirty he waged a liter-
ary war with the so-called romantic school, and
although his letters and satires were only in manu-
script, they circulated freely and had a great repute, as
indeed they were very forcible and witty.
In the fourth decade of his life we see him writing
ballads and romances; in the fifth he is the translator
of "Andromache," and then he finishes his poetic
career by " A Yisit Into the Neighborhood," and a
poem, "The Home of My Grandfather." They were
indeed all true Polish pictures, — replete with, and full
of, old-time diction, simplicity of language, and faithful
delineations of historical figures. And thus Morawski,
commencing only as a soldier poet, subsequently goes
through other periods, and with a flexibility peculiar
to himself, — everything new that came into repute in
the literary world.
MORAWSKI. 103
He was born in 1785 in the Great Duchy of Posen,
and received a careful education at Leszno. He after-
ward attended a law school at Frankfurt, and subse-
quently at Kalish. In the year 1806 he served in the
National army and participated in the great wars of
Napoleon, and reached the rank of the chief of staff.
His eulogy, delivered at the funeral ceremony of Prince
Joseph Poniatowski, 23d of December, 1813, was a
splendid effort of oratory. During the existence of
the Duchy of Warsaw he served in the Polish army,
and in 1819 obtained the rank of brigadier-general.
During his sojourn at Warsaw he frequently visited
General Vincent Krasiński, whose house was the as-
semblage of distinguished men representing literature.
After the year 1831, having suffered imprisonment at
Wołogda, in Russia, he retired to Posen, and settled in
a village called Lubonia, where he wrote poetry, prin-
cipally for a literary publication called "The Friend
of the People," issued at Leszno. He died in 1861.
His works were published at Breslau; then a col-
lection of poetry in 1841; at Leszno in 1851, and St.
Petersburg in 1855. His son published his Fables at
Posen in 1862; Five Poems of Lord Byron at Leszno
in 1853.
A sketch of his life, written by L. Siemieński in
the .Polish Review, was published at Cracow in 1866.
GIERMEK.*
Once in Poland's land deep sadness
Filled the people ev'rywhere,
For the Swede with war's fierce madness
Conquered all and none would spare.
* Squire or shield-bearer.
104 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
In the lindens' shadows dreary,
Strayed the army's broken band;
By the camp-fires dumb and weary
Mused the warriors of the land.
When a bard with white hair flowing,
Came the shattered ranks among;
Well they knew those accents glowing,
As he touched his lute and sung:
Olden themes can tell a story
Charming every heart and ear;
Olden tales of valor's glory,
Ev'ry patriot loves to hear.
Once we stood a lofty tower,
And a shield firm-fixed and strong
To repel the foreign power
Moved to work our people wrong.
On the foes of other nations
Fast our Polish arrows poured ;
Sang we Freedom's exultations
And the peace that we adored.
Clash of armies fierce contending,
Anguished moans and trumpets swell,
With pursuits wild thunders blending,
Formed the hymns we knew full well.
Ev'ning's light serene and solemn
Sets Petrolia's fields aglow;
Comes the army's stately column,
Unappalled to meet the foe.
Wagons, caissons, onward sweeping,
Shake the ground with thundrous pace,
MORAWSKI. 105
Rich the field for Death's grim reaping,
As the threatening armies face.
On one side in spotless glory
Faith's bright banner fluttered high
O'er brave youths and hetman hoary
For the right prepared to die.
Mad with passion's wild commotion
On the other side arrayed,
Raging like a troubled ocean,
Tartar rabble's ranks displayed.
Sank the sun in blood, as warning
Every one that strife is near;
Carnage dire begins when morning
In the flushed East shall appear.
Now the Polish chief, attended
By trained bearer of his shield,
When the first dusk has descended
Mounts resolved to scan the field.
Now the foes' dark camp surveying.
Rides he numbering fires alight, —
Hears their buzz, their horses' neighing,
And in thought has caused their flight.
Chief restrain thy soaring fancies
Tartars fight with desperate zeal ;
Swift and changeful war's wild chances,
Hark ! those sounds raised peal on peal.
'Tis the Tartars' rabble forces,
All the camp is now alarmed;
Cries the chief : "Quick! to your horses!"
Ghief, — shield-bearer, — all are armed.
106 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Through the darkness dense prevailing,
Through tumultuous rising sound,
'Mid the ranks they rush assailing
The fixed rabble that surround.
Now the young shield-bearer breaking,
From his youth merged fire and life;
In his arm while still unshaking,
Brave-souled hetman led the strife.
Hear they coming in the distance,
Polish warriors! glorious bands!
But too late is their assistance;
Destined they for Tartars' hands.
Youth is taken! — hetman taken!
'Mid a savage shout prolonged;
Stubborn Khan with anger shaken
Views the captives he has wronged.
With a fierce revenge that never
Boil'd with greater malice, he
Soon decrees the two forever
Shackled foot to foot shall be.
To the skies above them shining,
Lifted they their tear-dimmed eyes;
Yet why sing I their repining
Reveries sad and hopeless sighs?
He who never had to languish
In fell slavery's chains can know
All a captive's bitter anguish,
In the power of ruthless foe.
Who in grief vain and despairing,
Has bedewed his food with tears,
MORAWSKI. 107
'Midst a savage rabble bearing
Pain untold, long suffering years.
For a time in mournful dreaming
Sat the bard, depressed and mute;
With the silent tears down streaming,
Then resumed his song and lute.
Soon the hetman gray is sleeping,
Hushed to rest as 'mid his own;
But the youth a watch is keeping,
Wrapped in dreams of home alone.
Full of grief and pain, no sighing
Or embittered tear relieves;
On the ground beside him lying
He a glittering axe perceives.
Trembling, dreaming, thinking, yearning,
Filled with purpose high he stands,
Noble fire within him burning,
Grasps the axe with vigorous hands!
On his iron shackles gazing,
Firm, unfaltering aim he takes
At his foot; — the axe upraising —
Severed 'tis — the chief awakes !
Cries the youth : thy people need thee,
Slumbering guards the way leave clear.
Conquer Khan, for I have freed thee,
Joyfully I will perish here.
Rose the chief, — the youth confided
To God's care while tears flowed fast,
Blest him, from the dungeon glided
And the slumbering sentry past.
108 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Suddenly the guards awaken !
Find no prisoner but the youth,
To the Khan the news is taken,
Hastened he to prove its truth.
Scarce believing what was told him,
In the youth's bold eyes he gazed,
Doubting though he did behold him,
Strove to read him — sore amazed.
Virtue conquers Hate's fell power;
Cure the youth — 'tis my command,
Said the Khan, — and with rich dower
Send him to his native land.
Now before the court — all wearing
Radiant robes of royal sheen,
Comes the youth with grateful bearing,
Walking two famed knights between.
With a crutch his form sustaining,
Now the beauteous youth appears,
Wonder in their bosoms reigning,
All the court is moved to tears.
Comes the youth deep homage showing
To the king placed on his throne,
Who a famous sword bestowing
Named him knight, while thro' his own
Circle came the hetman hoary
With a golden foot, and turned
To the youth. " Distinctive glory,"
Said the king, " you've richly earned.
" This your coat-of-arms for wearing,
All in mem'ry of your deeds;
MORAWSKI. 109
Full of virtue, full of daring."
Then the martyred youth he leads
'Mid the people's shouts up pealing
To the blest altar of the Lord;
And before it humbly kneeling,
There he fervently implored
That success might e'er attend them;
Prays he to the God of heaven
That more heroes he will send them
For their country's glory given.
Then the bard no longer raising
His free song, — his lute has stilled,
While his eyes are deeply gazing
In the hearts his song has thrilled.
KARPIŃSKIE MONUMENT AT KOŁOMYIA (GALICIA).
KAKPLŃSKI. Ill
KARPIŃSKI.
Francis Karpiński is one of those few who, during
the reign of Stanislaus Augustus, deserve the name of
true poets. He differs from the old classical Polish
poets in this, that they were artistic and followed cer-
tain rules of composition with much strictness, but
Karpiński, too sincere to bend that way, chooses no
especial system, but sings like a bird, he breathes what
he has in his soul, and spreads the feelings of his heart
right before us. In his Thyrses and Corydons we can
plainly see the rustics of Polish villages with small no-
bility in the background.
Karpin ski's songs breathe the elegiac, rustic spirit,
remote from overstrung cares sings and fondlings and
erratic reveries. He sang with a sincere feeling, de-
scribing his emotions almost with a childlike simplicity
— though every thought seems combined with feeling,
and every feeling is represented by a corresponding
pen image. All his original poetry bears a stamp of
sadness. Some of these songs can fairly compare with
the most beautiful compositions of Goethe. It is al-
most impossible to find anything equal to them as re-
gards delicacy of feeling and expression. With the
most beautiful of these we may include the idyl "Lau-
ra and Philon." His religious songs hit exactly the
heart of the popular feeling. They are simple and art-
less, and always worthy of their subject. Among these
we can mention "The Morning Hymn," u All of Our
Daily Doings," " During the Labor in the Field," etc.
All these songs are destined to remain forever on the
lips of the people.
As a political poet Karpiński has no significance,
112 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
for he never took active part in the troublous move-
ments during the reign of Stanislaus Augustus, al-
though he wrote a few threns, consecrating them to the
cause of his country, one of them on ' ' The 3d of May,
1791," and another "The Lament of a Sarmatian
Over the Grave of Stanislaus Augustus, the Last
Polish King from the House of Jagellons." His song
stopped with the sad fate of his country, and he him-
self said that he laid down his lute on the grave of
Sigismund.
Karpiński excels in sad themes and grave subjects.
"The Duma of Ludgarda" is a fine specimen of the
kind.
He was born in 1741, and commenced his education
at Lemberg (Leopol or Lwów), then for a short time
he was engaged in law practice, but he soon became
tired of it and traveled in foreign countries. He re-
mained in Vienna for about one and a half years, de-
voting himself to studies. Returning to his own coun-
try he for some time followed farming, and then he
became an inmate of Prince Czartoryiski's family, and
finally held the office of Secretary of the Interior
under King Stanislaus Augustus. Retiring from the
office the king persuaded him to accept the tutorship
of young Prince Radziwił, but after a lapse of a year
he left the lucrative place and took in rentage the vil-
lage of Krośniak and again engaged in farming.
In the year 1807 he went to Warsaw, but soon quit
the capital and returned once more to the peace and
quiet of a country life, where he passed the remainder
of his days in seclusion. Being a single man he left
his property to his relatives. He died in 1825. He
was called the poet of the heart.
His works were published at Warsaw in 1792, 1806,
KARPIŃSKI. 113
and 1830, in Breslau 1826, in Leipsic 1836, and by Tu-
rowski, in Cracow, 1862.
Besides these his comedy, "The Rent," came out
in 1782; the tragedy, "Boleslas III," Warsaw 1790,
and " The Memoirs of the Times From 1741 to 1822,"
published by Moraczewski, Posen 1844, and Lemberg
1849. Anton Kornilowicz wrote "Life and Writings
of Karpiński," Wilno 1827.
MORNING HYMN.
"Kiedy ranne wstają zorze."
When the morning stars are rising,
Earth and sea thy glories praising,
Join all nature's voice in singing,
Praise to thee, Oh God, we're bringing !
Man on whom thou'st poured rich treasure,
Endless bounties without measure,
By Thy power redeemed, life given,
Why not praise Thee, God of heaven!
When at morn I first awaken,
On my lips Thy name is taken,
And I call on God profoundly,
Then I seek Him all around me!
Yesternight were many taken,
To the sleep that ne'er shall waken,
While our ling' ring breath is given —
For Thy praise, great God in heaven!
EVENING HYMN.
Through the past day our behavior,
With mercy accept just Savior,
And when we sink to dreamful sleep,
May praise of Thee our visions keep.
8
114 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
As Thy eyes are turned upon us,
Day and night are looking on us,
Where feeble and weary mortals,
Wait for help from out Thy portals.
Turn away the dark night's terror,
Save us Lord from shafts of error,
Judge and Guardian in Thy keeping,
Have us waking, have us sleeping.
YEARNINGS IN THE SPRING.
Full many times the sun has come and gone
And favored the day with light ;
But from my life all sunshine has withdrawn
Why must I ever walk in night?
The grain is shooting up so fresh, so .fair,
Almost the heads begin to show ;
So verdant are the wide fields ev'rywhere,
Why does my precious wheat not grow?
Within the grove sweet sings the nightingale,
Echoes the grove its melody;
Gaily the birds sing in the woodland and vale,
But my bird does not sing for me !
Many flowers have sprung from the moist ground,
After a reviving shower;
Bright tinted are the meadows all around,
Oh ! why springs for me no flower ?
How long, O Spring! shall I beseech in vain?
Disconsolate I sigh and yearn ;
While my sad tears have bathed the earth in rain,
For this, a harvest rich return.
KARPIŃSKI. 115
PEACE THAT VIRTUE BRINGS.
Whoever paints virtue sad, has seen
But little of her charms serene;
E'er pleasantly she smiles nor sighs,
Nor turns aside her lovely eyes.
Naught can the deeps of her calmness stir,
Fortune, misfortune, are alike to her.
In vain mishaps to work her ill
Their poisonous darts make sharper still;
She meets them as the steadfast rock
Receives unmoved the sea wave's shock
Or as the fire that burns with ardent glow
In gold's bright semblance more and more will grow.
His country Socrates loved well,
And for its cause drank poison fell,
Nor felt a fear, but strong and brave
To friends beside him counsel gave;
Anitus grumbled in amaze to see
E'en death could not annoy that spirit free.
Why runs he with distracted air?
Why sadly weeps and tears his hair?
He grieves because that has been done
For which no help is 'neath the sun.
Let him a hundred years lament, 'tis vain ;
A farthing's worth it helps not to complain.
The chain in ages past begun,
Wrought from the world's swift changes, none;
Can it undo save He whose hand
Linked it together as He planned?
Why grieve then for what is or for what was,
Since all is ruled by just, eternal laws?
116 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Brief are our lives and naught we know
Of the to-morrow. Since tis so,
Why should we borrow care or sour
With needless fears a single hour?
Gold's worshipers may tremble full of fear,
No cause to tremble have God's children dear.
Upon the path with thorns entwined,
Fragrant flowers youll also find:
Then let us forward bravely go,
Nor mind a little pain, although
We are stung at times, it is said a wound
Heals quick where roses without thorns are found.
WORONICZ. 117
WORONICZ.
John Paul Woronicz occupies one of the most
distinguished places among the poets of Poland. In
genius he surpasses many of his contemporaries,
characterized by the purely national simplicity of the
olden times. At the decline of the old epoch he comes
in as a new prophet of other times and other peoples,
dissimilar in the outlook of the present generation, but
inimitable and incomparable. He did no homage to
the new conceptions, innovations, or impressions of the
age he lived in, drawing his subjects from historical
elements and historical reminiscences, the faith of his
ancestors; from the burning feelings of the purest
patriotism gushed forth his poetical inspirations, and,
like a true bard of the people, he was their interpreter
and their embodiment in their grandest national rem-
iniscences.
In many respects Woronicz is allied to the two
greatest bards of the Holy Scriptures. He combined
the ardor of Ezekiel with the tender emotions of Jere-
miah, and it can be truly asserted that no poet was ever
more impressed with them than Woronicz, no poet bet-
ter appreciated them than he did.
The feeling of national pride was the chief theme of
his lyrics, but their tenor is sad and the intrinsic con-
struction of his songs is solemn. He paid but little
attention to their smoothness, correctness, and finish.
Bold and manly conceptions are so molded as to
purposely give them the form of perpetuity.
In his " Hymn to God " the bard sings of the won-
derful goodness of God to the Polish nation. We see
118 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
here as if an apotheosis of the whole people was ex-
alted to the highest and almost gigantic extent. Sub-
lime poetic art flows into a deeply affecting and re-
ligious strain; the load of grief is raised heavenward,
where buoyant imagination takes its flight into the
highest regions of sublimity; for it represents the
whole nation chanting the covenant made with God for
a thousand years.
His "Temple of the Sybil" is an epopee, a hymn
of Poland's glory, sung in praise of national deeds and
patriotic remembrances; heroic deeds of valor are un-
earthed from the ruins of the past — of nine hundred
years — its glories and its trophies are the historical
themes of this great poetic creation. The style of ex-
pression, the ardor, and the extraordinary boldness of
imagery are the characteristics of the poem. Similar
literary qualities characterize also his "Lech," "The
Diet of Wiślica," and "The Dissertation on National
Songs."
Woronicz was born in 1759, in the province of Vol-
hynia, and was educated at the Jesuit College in Os-
trowo. He joined the order when quite young.
On account of his unusual talents he was called to a
professorship at that college, and filled his duties so
well that he received commendations of not only his
superiors, but also thanks of those whom he taught.
After the abolition of the order in 1773 he obtained
a situation at the Mission at Warsaw, and giving him-
self up to arduous labors he became so erudite in learn-
ing that he commanded the respect of the most dis-
tinguished and learned heads of the church. Adam
Ceciszewski, the bishop of Kijow, as also of Garnysz,
the bishop of Chełmno, frequently consulted with him
in regard to church affairs. In this way the young
WORONICZ. 119
chaplain paved his way to the acquaintance of the king,
Stanislaus Augustus. In 1795 he left Warsaw, and was
satisfied with the modest parsonage at Liwo, and with
much ardor gave himself up to the duties of a country
pastor. From Liwo he was assigned to the curacy of Casi-
mir, in the neighborhood of Puławy, where the sight
of "The Temple of the Sybil" filled with so many
national souvenirs and relics furnished him the materi-
als for composing the celebrated poem of that name.
The society of "Friends of the Sciences" at Warsaw
made him a member. Being again assigned to a new
curacy at Powsinie, near Warsaw, and before he had yet
settled at his new parish, Frederick August called him
to fill the office of a dean at the cathedral at Warsaw,
and a counsellor of state. In this new situation he
soon was known as an orator of great distinction.
When the remains of the heroic Prince Poniatowski,
who perished at the battle of Leipsic, in 1813, were
brought to Warsaw, Woronicz delivered a funeral ora-
tion which stands up to this day as the highest effort of
the kind. Afterward the Emperor Alexander I made
him bishop of Cracow. In the year 1829 he was as-
signed to the archdiocese of Warsaw, to which was at-
tached the dignity of the Primate, and while holding
that high office he presided and conducted the corona-
tion of Nicholas I as the King of Poland. Soon after
Woronicz left Warsaw for Vienna in order to recover
his failing health, but unhappily soon after his arrival
there he died, December 4, 1829.
A collection of his poems was published in Cracow
1832, and in Leipsic in two volumes in 1833.
120 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
FROM THE TEMPLE OF THE SYBIL.*
Oracle of Hesperian lands ! fame crowns thy brow
Of vast and sacred groves, all-powerful abbess thou!
To whilom lost and scattered Trojan bands, once more
Hast shown the welcome headland of safe fortified shore.
Later, with wonderful mysteries hast led apace
To glory grand and great their ever-conquering race.
Now having forsaken Cumsean rock renowned
Thou hast on Vistula's shores a shining temple found !
Let me iń my song praise of thy new abode proclaim,
And praise of the people long extinct — and of their name !
Here shepherds gather from all the heaths by winding ways,
Remind one of the olden, happy, vanished days,
That he possessed the name of fortunate, whose soul
Could not the whole world govern, but could himself control,
Who faithful as a friend, and as a father kind and wise
Wiped full many bitter tears from sorrowing eyes—
His riches counted he in sheaves and in herds alone —
But far more than these the wealth of love was all his own.
His nature serenely high was also gently bland
And worthy of the virtuous Amarylla's hand,
With whom in affection and peace for aye lived he,
In concord sweet unruffled by adversity.
Craved he no other's goods — but wholly was content,
His old age was adorned by love and honors blent,
And when called to his last resting place, calmly slept —
Regretted by all in truth — by all sincerely wept.f
* Temple of the Sybil. A lofty building in the garden of Puławy,
erected in imitation of the Temple of Tiburtine Sybil on the river
Teverone, in Italy, by Princess Isabella Czartoryiska, as a depository
of Polish national souvenirs by a cove of the river Vistula, and at the
base of a mountain among beautiful trees. It bears an inscription :
" The Past of the Future."
f Prince Adam Czartoryiski. The family of Czartoryiski comes
from the lineal of a royal family of Gedymines.
WORONICZ. 121
LOVE AND VIRTUE.
He that can feel within his heart true love
Is virtuous already — or such will prove.
THE POLES.
Poles ! my dear brethren your high laws are all the same —
Virtue is your element and valor is your name!
ARCHBISHOP KRASICKI.
KKAS1CKI. 123
KRASICKI.
Ignatz Krasicki, the celebrated archbishop and
poet, is an acknowledged representative of his period.
He was not one of those geniuses who have their mind's
eye fixed upon their own greatness and glory in the
distant future; on the contrary he was a true citizen,
endeavoring in the happiest possible manner to lift up,
not himself, but his fellow-countrymen and the age he
lived in. If even Mother Nature had not fitted him
with that facility and pleasant ways, his own good heart
would have led him to seek the way to conquer super-
stition, bad taste, and especially the carelessness and
indifference to learning. He appeared on the stage
exactly in the right time, when sciences in Poland had
not yet assumed a definable shape, and of course had
not reached the point of desired amplification. The
spirit of philosophy of the eighteenth century, with its
erroneous teachings, was in the ascendant; but Krasicki
overcame that difficulty by boldly yet pleasantly point-
ing out a different and a better way. Although he
himself had been brought up under its baneful influ-
ences, he was able by his writing to gradually reinstate
the old-time customs, faith, and maimers of his
ancestors.
Krasicki occupied a high place in Polish literature.
He was very witty, and although he did not display
great creative powers in his comic composition, he had
a way of his own to sing with the harmony of a bird,
adding to it a precision and a consummate finish. Being
an excellent judge of the human heart, he had a happy
faculty of seeing men and things exactly as they were;
124, POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
hence lie was pertinent and practical. He was an
excellent delineator of the faults and foibles of the
living pictures of society.
Among the poetical works of Krasicki his satires
are entitled to the first place and consideration; except
their pungency they have no real bitterness in them,
and always a tendency to correct the existing state of
things. In them he paints in a humorous manner the
customs, ways, and manners so precisely that such a
description was something very uncommon in those
days. While castigating the ways and manners he
invariably brought up an ideal how they should be. If
he ridiculed anything funny, sluggish, or what deserved
reprimand, he at the same time set forth types worthy
of imitation. By such course he plainly proved that
whoever undertakes to point out others' faults he must
love them.
His satires are of two different kinds — some touch
the weaknesses and defects of the humanity at large,
as for instance "Malice, Hidden and Open," "The
Happiness of Rogues," and "Drunkenness "; in others
again he points out the national shortcomings, as in
"The Fashionable Wife," "The Journey," "Prodi-
gality," "Praise of Age," and "Court Life." Some,
however, contain irony and sarcasm, as " The Spoiled
World."
His " Monachomachia, or the War of the Monks,"
was written when he and Voltaire lived together at the
Palace of Sans-Souci. It was a happy occurrence that
when Krasicki embraced Voltaire's philosophical ideas
he did not reach as deeply as Voltaire himself. Having
been born in the southern part of Pussia-Poland he
was by nature true to himself, and did not possess that
virulence of character. Being himself an Ecclesiastic,
KRASICKI. 125
he knew the defects and digressions of the clergy, and
inliicced his castigations accordingly. In this produc-
tion lie distinguishes himself in pleasant but harmless
wit, nice imagery, accuracy, and grace of expression.
Throwing the mantle of fun, and even ludicrousness,
over high thoughts, the author exerted great power and
influence in that direction. When it was ascertained
that his intent was misunderstood and misconstrued,
and looked upon as a lampoon on the clergy, and that
many minds were vitiated thereat, Krasicki composed
'• Antimonachomachia '' — sort of a revocation of the
former poem; but 4i Monachomachia " had neverthe-
less the desired effect in correcting the existing evils.
The subject of the poem was the confederation of the
clergy against the author of the offensive literary
production.
•• Myszeis " is a playful poem containing within it a
hidden moral and satirical comparisons in regard to
national defects. This contention for the preeminence,
or we should say " Who shall be greatest? " between
rats and mice, means probably the old political wrangles
in Poland, — misunderstandings or quarrels between
the Senate and the Chivalry of those days.
Besides the satirical writings of Krasicki we can
place his Letters, — ■ the subject matter and the style of
which very much approach his satires. These, being
written in verse after French models, palpably remind
us of the haste and defects of the literature of that
period.
In his "Doswiadczyński" (the man of experience),
a moral tale written in prose, Krasicki paints the social
defects of that time. Thoughtlessness, prodigality,
litigation, bribery, the law intrigues, court eloquence,
are pictured in vivid colors. This jocular but highly
126 POETS AND POETRY OF " POLAND.
interesting production hits somebody or something
every time, and shows in the author an uncommon
talent and discrimination of how and where to casti-
gate national blemishes.
From all of Krasicki's writings his Fables were
perhaps the most popular; they all contain truths,
expressed with great conciseness and wit, comprising
at the same time deep meaning, sound practical philos-
ophy, replete with the spirit of reflection, humanity,
and frequently patriotism. They are all short, prac-
tical tales, allegories, or witty anecdotes. "The War
of Chocim" Krasicki composed to show that a good
epopee could be written in the Polish language.
His " Pan Podstoli " * we consider a valuable
depository, and it stands as a living monument of
Polish ancestry. In this work Krasicki rises higher
in philosophical tendency than any painters of char-
acters or novel-writers have ever led us. In the
representation of Mr. Podstoli he did not follow any
especial ideal, or the originality of any person; he
simply and plainly painted a characteristic portrait of
a citizen, husband, father, and neighbor, who in the
fullness of his own and his family's happiness con-
quers old impediments and defends himself from the
new ones; prizing knowledge, liberal in his household,
generous in his frugality, an indulgent moralist, glad
in the goodness of his heart, sincere in his moderation,
and awakening in every heart a longing desire for hap-
piness similar to his own.
Krasicki is the man of his epoch, not only of the
age he lived in, but for all ages to come, so long as we
will think, feel, and write in Polish. Krasicki had
* Tinder-carver — An honorary title among the ancient Polish
nobility.
KRASICKI. 127
within him every quality to raise him to so high a
sphere. He possessed immense creative powers, an
original mind, and original ways of looking at things, —
qualities which in reality constitute a true poet. He
created a sphere to which he attracted the people
without any resistance on their part, — so much so that
his poetry became a necessary element in their
existence.
The great archbishop stands on the borders of the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; but the creation
and preparation of a boundless poetical sphere, and
bringing a general use of his ideas into different
strata of society, make him a poet not only of his age,
but also of the present time.
Krasicki was born in 173tfc at Dubiecko, now in the
southern part of Eussia-Poland. After finishing his
studies at Lemberg he resided at Eome. Eeturning to
his country he became a canon, and then a curate at
Przemyśl. When hardly thirty years old he presided
over the Ecclesiastical Tribunal at Lublin, and it was
not long after that the king, Stanislaus Augustus, made
him coadjutor of the old bishop, Grochowski, and
when he died in 1767 Krasicki succeeded him as the
Bishop of Warmia, with the title of a prince. In 1772,
after the first partition of Poland, when Warmia, with
the western part of Prussia, came under the reign of
Prussia, Krasicki became a vassal to Frederick II, who
having a sort of penchant to surround himself with
learned men took him to his side and invited him to
reside in his palace of Sans-Souci. When, after the last
partition of Poland, a considerable part of the king-
dom of Poland came under the Prussian dominion,
Krasicki was made the archbishop of Gniezno, in 1795,
and occupied that high place till his death. In 1800
128 POETS AKD POETRY OF POLAND.
he was made a member of the Society of the Friends
of Learning at Warsaw. He died in 1801.
All his works were published at Warsaw in 1803 and
1804, in ten volumes; in Paris, 1830, ten volumes in
one; in Leipsic, 1834. Besides his encyclopaedic col-
lection of the most important information, alphabet-
ically arranged, his comedies u The Liar," "The Poli-
tician, " and " Solenizant" (the solemnizerof his birth-
day) were published under a pseudonym of Michael
Mowiński.
THE WAR OF CHOCIM.
Canto I.
Long in the murderous rolls of conquering fame
The Osmanlis, — scourge of God, — in proud success,
Had triumph'd. Devastation, blood and flame
They scatter'd in their fury, merciless.
Unsated even by slaughter they became
Prouder in power, — encouraged to oppress;
Half the wide world had recognized their sway,
And their stern scepter bade the rest obey.
Fall'n Greece! on thy majestic ruins, high
The haughty Moslem rears his tyrant throne;
How many desolated nations lie
In dust ! — how many suffering kingdoms groan !
Towns, towers in ashes sink ; by his stern eye
Dismay'd, their terror trembling millions own,
Shuddering in dread, when with half-stifled breath
They see him wave the scimitar of death.
Before him fell the holy city's walls.
Thy daughters, Zion! wept in slavery long;
Whelm 'd in the dust thy palaces and halls.
No more Mount Calvary's sacred scenes among
KRASICKI. 129
Kneel pious pilgrims; — drear desertion palls
The Savior's sacred tomb; an impious throng
Insulting trampled where to fallen man
Salvation's marvelous mystery began.
The valiant Osman then the throne possess'd, —
Osman, whose conquests like the ocean spread;
To daring deeds adventurously he press'd,
And joy'd his sire's ambitious path to tread.
His busy love of conquest found no rest,
But in devoting every Christian head.
Impious! to deem a tyrant's peevish rod
Could raze or blast what has been raised by God.
Such thoughts he cherishes; the powers of Hell
Fan his ambitious flame: before his eyes
They bid fresh wreaths of shadowy laurels dwell —
A filmy web; though victory's heedless cries
Ring in his ears like music, sorrow's swell
Seems joy, while in his soul stern thoughts arise.
'Twas thus deluded warrior bands became
A scourge to nations, — to the world a shame.
So from the palace happy quiet flies, —
The seat of peace is in the shelter'd cot;
When cares disturb the mind, sleep shuns the eyes, —
Sleep, not the monarch's, but the peasant's lot:
Though on a couch of down proud Osman lies,
Repose his weary eye-lids visits not.
'Twas dawn, — the star of morn palely shed
Her beams, when o'er him slumbers faintly spread.
The great Arch-fiend approach'd him, — he of old
Hurl'd down from highest heaven, — who bids abound
On earth both guilt and guile. A cloth of gold,
From distant India brought, encurtain'd 'round
9
130 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
The tyrant's bed: — in form of human mould
The daemon wrapp'd him; and with human sound,
While the false prophet's visible shape he took,
Thus to the deeply-slumbering monarch spoke :
"Nay! on a soft and an effeminate bed,
This is no fitting time, my son ! to taste
Oblivious sleep. Aurora blushing red
Heralds the morn; the pale stars sink to rest;
The sun uprises bright: — Awake! and lead
Those conquering bands who wait thy high behest:
Awake! and let thy great example tell,
Sloth cannot in the minds of heroes dwell.
" Awake ! let them behold in thee whate'er
Befits a conquering nation's monarch ; scorn
Of sloth; delight the steely mail to wear;
A wakeful eye anticipating morn: —
Thine arm'd host waits thee, nought is wanting there
To valor, but a leader; fierce they burn
For the wild joy of battle: — thus of yore
Their sires won fame; and lo! they pant for more.
" By glory led, whose brightly beaming light
Shines all propitious by the hero's side,
Each step is certain conquest; to the fight
A hero leading heroes; terror's tide
Shall whelm the Christians; and thy power shall blight
Each bud of hope for them; thy falchion dyed
With blood shall on the Faithful joy bestow, —
That sword which flashes death upon the foe."
As when the savage boar outstretch'd in sleep,
In his dark covert hidden, hears the horn
Of the sharp hunter, and from slumbers deep
Awakes in bursting wrath, and rage, and scorn, —
KRASICKI. 131
Bristled and panting see the monster leap
Forth from his den; foaming and fury-torn
He dashes tow'rds the sounds, — so Osman sprung,
While round his dreaming eyes the vision hung.
And fierce and fatal were the threats which call'd
His troops around him then; the battle cloud
Spread darkly gathering. Armies were enthrall'd;
Viziers and Agas at the mandates loud,
And seldom-check'd Pachas, by fear appall'd,
Brought their attendant hordes, and meekly bow'd;
While scarce one welcoming, one approving glance
Escaped the frowning despot's countenance.
He stood among them like a pyramid
O'er-darkling with its shade the plain around,
And thus unveil'd his daring purpose, — hid
Till then ; while at the valor-stirring sound,
Prostration mute, and eager rapture bid
Meet utterance : — " Thou, the Koran's moat and mound,
Stretch out thy blade; thy foes shall pass away.
And prostrate earth adore the Prophet's sway.
11 Nobly thou hast begun, and so proceed !
Let thy sword herald on the law divine; —
Destroy the impugners of the Prophet's creed,
But on the faithful let thy favor shine.
Thy glory shall encircle earth ; the meed
Of pious triumphs, — thou shalt raise a shrine
To victory. And as Rome was victory's queen,
Stamboul shall now become what Rome has been."
Skinder Pacha was there, — 'twas he who won
Cecora's bloody day, — and thus he gave
His monarch humble counsel: " Thy proud throne
Towers above all thrones, and thus thy slave
132 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Presumes t' advise. Since Poland's bravest son
Sleeps mouldering in his melancholy grave,
Be Poland thy first spoil: for Poland lies
Crouch 'd at thy feet, — and at thy frown she dies.
" Żółkiewski was their chief: his fame in war
Was mighty: toils and time had made him gray:
His band look'd proudly on their country's star;
His countless band ; and in the glimmering ray
Of faded recollections twinkling far
Sought hope ! Thou gav'st them to us as a prey, —
Thou, Prophet! whom they dared blaspheme. They fell,
As ever falls the insulting infidel.
" And now dismay has crowded on defeat,
And terror holds them in its heavy chains;
Send forth thy mandate, and they shall retreat,
O'erpower'd and scatter'd, as across the plains
An atom in a whirlwind. It were meet
To whelm in dust their wasted, weak remains, —
Their wives, their children, slavery's bonds await, —
All yield to fate, — and they must yield to fate.
" They have despised thee in their insolent pride ;
They have rebell'd against thy sovereign will ;
Laugh'd at thy awful frowns ; and turn'd aside
Prom thy bright smiles: and undespairing still,
Their obstinate zeal supports them. Chiefs divide,
And factions tear them; yet by force or skill
They hang together: and these stubborn foes
The only barrier to thy sway oppose."
Thus the fierce Skinder spoke: their lord's behest
Anxious the whole divan awaited. He
The wild, rude anger of his eye suppress'd;
While bursting joy, dim dreams of victory,
KRASICKI. 133
And restless passions struggled in his breast.
He bow'd assent : and with proud dignity
Threw round him a dark glance of light afar.
And utter'd, " War, my warriors! nought but war!"
He said that he himself his troops would head,
And lead them on to triumph. At the word
A murmuring concert-tone of gladness spread,
And loud eulogiums on their valiant lord ;
For armies when by hero-monarchs led,
Know no defeat. A sultan's self-drawn sword
Flashes with victory. A chieftain brave
Makes all his followers spurn the gaping grave.
Then to the camp vast crowds of warriors throng,
From every quarter summon'd. Shouts of joy
And the gay music of the battle-song
Bid the heart leap, and light the ebon eye.
There young and old, children and sires, among
The gathering band are mix'd tumultuously;
And many an oath is heard, and many a vow
To Allah and the Prophet utter'd now.
And o'er the palace portal high unroll'd,
The Prophet's banner, deck'd with pearls and gems,
Floated. It was a sheet of broiderd gold,
Sparkling with jewels fit for diadems,
Which dazzle when their brightness we behold:
And the sublimest of all apothegms:
" There is no god but God, — and Mahomet
His Prophet is." on the bright field was set.
And proudly to the wind its folds it flung,
And million voices blended all around;
The clashing cymbals high aloft were flung.
The spahts shouts, and the strange babel-sound
134 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Of countless voices uttering joy, o'er-rung
All heaven ; the war-steeds stamp'd the dusty ground,
Eager for battle. Osman bent his head,
And to the crowds the white-lock'd Mufti said:
"Ye have been chosen, Faithful! from the crowd
Of nations, sacred duties, mighty deeds
Triumphant to accomplish. Victory loud
Calls to the noble strife where victory leads;
Heaven blesses Ismael's sons; their banner proud,
With glory seated on its shrine, proceeds;
The Prophet's standard blinds the Infidel,
And God's bright smiles of light around it dwell.
"Yes, Osman! glorious thy reward shall be!
Bright as the dreams that pla}r around thee now
Shall be the future's dazzling victory;
And high as night's proud stars thy fame shall glow
O'er thy ruin'd foes. At thy decree
Cecora's scatter'd fragments swift shall go
Into oblivion. Thou shalt reign alone,
And all the prostrate world thy mandates own."
Then the mysterious Koran-tome he took,
And read its dark and deleterious page ;
Mingling new cheats with that all-cheating book,
He pours his blasphemies ; then strove to engage,
With a devout but most dissembling look,
Heaven's smiles upon the tyrant, — to assuage
Heaven's frowns ; and on the chiefs, and on the crowd,
Saints*, Mulahs, and Imams, pour'd blessings loud.
Then to his palace he return'd, and soon
Warriors from every quarter join'd his train;
From whence Euphrates, lighted by the moon,
Bursts through his cliff-bound way; and from the plain
* Santons.
KRASICKI. 135
Where rolls the yellow Tigris 'neath the noon,
Rushing in rapid depths toward the main:
And from the jagged and the granite shores,
Where fierce Araxes through the hard rocks roars.
And whence the solemn Xilus rolls his tide,
Enriching at each step Egyptian lands,
To where in seven-mouth 'd eloquence of pride
He breaks impatient from his earthly bands
Into the Ocean's bridal bed. The wide
And scorch'd Sahara, and Xumidia's sands,
Sent forth their sons, and Ethiopia's eye
Look'd proudly on her troops of ebony.
From Yemen came a sturdy shepherd race,
Bronzed in the fierceness of the burning sun; —
The tribes of Fez, who deem it a disgrace
To spare or sympathize where gore-streams run;
From Mecca : from Medina — hallow'd place !
Scene of the Prophet's birth: from Lebanon
And from Mount Carmel's sides: — impatient all,
Panting for fame, and reckless though they fall.
But who can count them, — who, — when all array'd
They pass'd before the sultan's raptured eye?
He saw his million vassals who display'd
Their gorgeous pomp: and hope's light ecstasy.
Scepters and crowns and mighty kingdoms laid
At his proud feet by victory. To the sky
Tower'd his ambitious thoughts; his frowns he huiTd
And pour'd his threats of insult o'er the world.
HOW MUCH TO DRIXK.
You may drink of wine three times at a feast.
The first small glass won't hurt you in the least.
The second you drink to the health of friends,
And if you stop there, all pleasantly ends.
136 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
But suppose you drink the third to the guest,
Be sure that at this point you will rest —
For the fourth begets a coarseness of speech,
Words rude and vulgar your converse will reach;
At the fifth your anger is uncontrolled,
Loudly you talk — not knowing where to hold;
And if, after all these, a sixth succeed,
You are left in a wretched state indeed;
And one's perception need not be acute
To see you've reached the level of a brute !
DRUNKENNESS.
A SATIRE.
Where were you? T can hardly go. Are you sick? Yes,
You know I never humor myself to excess;
But such a headache as I've had words can't convey.
You must have surely had a gay time yesterday —
That's why you are sad to-day, how was it? I think,
After a luscious meal, water is good to drink.
Nay, not so good my friend, — and may that man be cursed
(IT1 tell you how it was) who used that proverb first. .
Day before yesterday I got drunk — wife's birthday;
I regret it not — that occasion should be gay.
'Tis a great day you know — nor is it very wrong
To raise your neighbor's spirits — wife was full of song.
We had lots of wine, and its quality was prime,
So you can bet we drank and we had a big time.
Till morn the feast continued, about noon I woke —
Head like a chunk of lead — to cough and spit and choke;
Madame proposed tea, but that's sickening, you know;
Somehow, 'twas but a chance, I passed a drug store. So
I took a drink of bitters, as anybody would,
Then I drank again, thinking it would do me good.
KRASICKI. 137
Still sick, again I drank, then I felt better quite,
And thus, then, happened two guests of yesternight;
Under such conditions a treat I could not shun —
And then how can one treat and yet himself drink none?
That wouldn't do. I drank, it happened, so you see,
The liquor was A No. 1, and hot as it could be.
That's good for the stomach, and as my good luck willed,
The nausea was stopped — that dreadful headache stilled.
Well, again, to happy home with my friends I went,
We found dinner ready, and it was excellent.
Mr. Andrew said temperance was a thing he prized,
Aye, long live temperance! drunkenness we despised.
At hand stood the bottle, the cork beside it laid,
Mr. Albert of dyspepsia somewhat afraid,
After the ham eaten, proposed a little wine.
One or two glasses drank for the health is fine,
Especially when the wine is pure and past its youth.
We acceded all to such self-evident truth —
Talked of manly spirit, of bold and grand designs,
Talked of gold and silver, of digging in the mines.
And so the bottle dried up — how? we scarcely knew,
And so another came — and while our ardor grew,
Disappeared the third, the fourth, and then the fifth came on,
Then the sixth and seventh and eighth and the tenth was gone !
And when our arguments grew louder and more free,
Mr. Andrew dared to fling the name of fellow at me.
I, a fellow! I'll teach you not to be so bold —
At me he goes, and I at him, we took fierce hold.
Albert interposed, and the servants next appeared,
I really do not know how the quarrel cleared —
Certes it is a bottle was broken on my head,
Be drunkenness below to darkest regions sped!
What is there in it? There is trouble, strife and pain,
Nausea, bruises, plasters — these are its only gain.
Well said: a pastime 'tis to which the lowest cling,
An upright man will scorn it as a shameless thing.
138 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All sorts of feuds and trouble from its reign outcome —
Mem'ry grows dull — reasoning powers grow numb;
Health suffers, and its victim hastens to life's brink.
Just look upon a man who is a slave to drink!
A man but in appearance — really a brute.
When a man is drunk 'tis fitting to compute
Him with senseless cattle — justice, not abuse.
If heaven thought fit to place wine here for man's use,
It was to help him, not to incapacitate —
The use of God's great gifts should e'er be moderate.
Though dumb brutes are senseless we oft are shamed by them.
Intemperance is a sin' that animals condemn
In men who drink but not alone to slack their thirst.
Brutes drink what is needful — man who calls them accurst
Is worse indeed than they are, more abject and low.
Heed not the wounds and piasters; the meed of guilt is — woe!
Far greater punishment than those bruises is meet
For those that keep transgressing in their blind conceit.
Knowledge, which distinguishes man from animal,
They often disregard for causes small.
What gain is sufficient to balance its neglect;
For its loss what profits sufficient can collect.
In those who commit not excesses base and vain
You'll find good sense and comfort — and freedom from all pain.
See the results that with temperance agree —
Perfect health, cloudless brain, and a mind gay and free;
Strength exceptional, and energy for their tasks;
Property in order, in smiles their household basks;
Cash to meet each needful and sensible expense, —
These are the inducements to follow temperance;
And aught but total abstinence is risky,
It is: Good-bye — I go to take a drink of whisky.
KKASICKI. 139
FABLES.
THE KING.
A certain king there was of projects grand
Would register the wise ones of the land,
The names likewise of all the happy found,
And set the scribes to search the kingdom round.
The seeker for the happy found but few,
But great the multitude of wise ones grew,
So great the scribe beheld his labor vain,
No paper left the number to contain!
THE LAZY OXEN.
The first commission of an ill
Delight is no less;
'Tis. in the effect it brings about
That lies the bitterness.
As easily is proven by
This most veracious history.
In spring the oxen all refused
To plough the grassy plain ;
When autumn came they would not haul
From out the fields the grain.
In winter, being scarce of bread,
They knocked the oxen on the head.
THE MOSQUITO AND THE FLY.
If we must fly at all, I know
We should soar neither high nor low,
Mosquito said, who, buzzing by,
Saw in a pail a drowning fly.
And sadly he bemoaned its fate,
That it had not been fortunate,
And, like himself, had wings to fly
Where'er he willed, or low or high,
140 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And mourning o'er its fate he turned,
Fell in the candle and was burned.
; THE BOYS AND THE FROGS.
At evening a small lake beside
A group of boys with hop and stride
Watching to see the frogs, ran by;
And when a frog with motion spry
Popped up, knowing of naught to dread,
They dealt a blow upon its head
Their love of sport to gratify.
But one frog, bolder than the rest,
With courage thus the boys addressed,
The while he rose into their sight:
" You'd better stop, — it is not right
For you to play the way you do ;
It is but senseless sport for you,
For us 'tis death, or wounds and fright."
THE RAM AND THE JACKASS.
The ass complained in moving words
It was a shame and sin
To cast him from the stable out
And let the ram within;
But while the loudest were his moans
Thus spake the ram in bitter tones:
" Be quiet, pray, my long-eared friend;
With anger be less rife,
A butcher's standing by my side
With ready, sharpened knife.
Comfort yourself with this conceit;
' Mankind will not eat jackass' meat! ' '
KRASICKI. 141
THE STANDISH AND THE PEN,
Betwixt the standish and the pen
A dreadful quarrel rose,
Which came to words of bitter kind,
Black looks and almost blows,
As to which penned a certain fable
That lay just written on the table.
Its author in the meanwhile came
The library within,
And, finding out the cause of this
Most sad and dang'rous din
Exclaimed: " How many bards at war
Just like this pen and standish are! "
THE DOG AND HIS MASTER.
A certain dog of watchful kind
To scare the thief away
Barked from the setting of the sun
Until the dawn of day.
His master at the morning light
Flogged him for barking thus all night.
Next night the dog in kennel slept
Sound with prodigious snore,
The thief broke in and seizing all
Made exit by the door.
When morning came they flogged the brute
Because the lazy dog was mute.
THE TALLOW-CANDLE AND THE TORCH.
A tallow-candle and a torch,
Both in a narrow place,
Were lighted, when the first began
To speak, with fancied grace:
" Fear not the dark, my glimmering brother,
My light shall the darkness smother."
142 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
" Fool ! " said the torch, " and thinkest thou
That all the world are blind,
That thy pretensions will deceive
A sensible mankind?
Or that they do no difference know
'Twixt my bright light and thy faint glow ! '
THE FOOL AND THE SAGE.
A fool one day a wise man asked
What good was there in learning,
If it improved one's happiness
And ought diminished mourning;
E'er mended coats or broiled a goose, —
In short, what was its aim or use?
At first the sage refused to speak,
But for a long time pressed,
In angry words yet courteous tones
This answer apt expressed:
" It becomes us this, its chiefest rule,
To give no answer to a fool."
THE TORTOISE AND THE MOUSE.
A tortoise crawling o'er the plain,
Bearing her shelly house,
Met 'fore she long had traveled
A fat and pompous mouse, ■
Who said: " I pity one past telling,
Who hath to carry such a dwelling."
" Reserve your pity, pray, my friend,"
The tortoise calm replied,
" And hie you to the palaces
Of man, to bloat your pride;
Though mine is formed of clumsy bone,
And is not handsome — 'tis my own."
KRASICKI. 143
THE HAUGHTY RAT.
Upon the altar, during mass,
One Sabbath morn there sat,
Surrounded by admiring friends,
A consequential rat.
11 For me," said he, " the incense floats,
And peal yon swelling organ notes.'1
E'en as he spoke, the incense cloud,
Borne by the summer breeze,
Came curling o'er the altar top
And made his ratship sneeze.
Hearing the sound, a wary cat
Leaped up — adieu, my haughty rat!
THE CAT AND THE HOUND.
A pussy who in corner sat,
Devouring dainty mice,
Was by a mighty stag-hound asked
Why lived she not more nice?
Said he, " I eat no mice-like gear,
But seize and slay the stately deer."
The cat replied with modest look,
" I grant my mice are small,
But please, my friend, to recollect,
That I consume them all;
Preferring for myself a mouse,
To a deer for my master's house."
THE TWO PAINTERS.
Two painters once, 'tis" said, there were,
Each bore a wond'rous name;
But one far o'er the other stood
In point of noisy fame.
144 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The best no cash nor blessing got,
The worst one had them both, I wot.
The first his portraits made from nature,
True to the copied one ;
Correct in every form and feature,
With faithful care 'twas done.
The last drew little on truth's store,
Embellishing from fancy more.
THE CHILD AND THE ROD.
The father whipped his child because
He was so slow to learn;
Imagining the smart would make
Him smarter to discern.
But e'er that way again he trod
His son and heir had burned the rod.
Next time when little John deserved
A heavy punishment,
The father, to the usual place,
To find his weapon went.
And, as 'twas missing, he was fain
To use instead his walking cane.
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS SHEEP.
A shepherd shearing sheep one day
Declaimed most zealously
Upon the care was ta'en of sheep,
From utter charity.
How they had homes to rest their feet
And in the winter food to eat.
The sheep he held was mute —
The angry peasant cried,
"Ungrateful! no acknowledgment?"
When calmly it replied —
KRASICKI. 145
" Well, God must pay men for their care:
From what is made the coats they wear?"
THE CAPTIVE BIRD.
" Why weepest thou?1' a youngling bird
To older one appealed,
"Art thou not better in this cage
Than in yon dangerous field?
For me the prison-house and care,
'Fore danger and the open air," '
" Peace !" said the elder bird, " be still !
Within this thou wert born;
But I have known the hallowed sweets
Of freedom in life's morn.
Bright liberty once sunned my brow,
I weep that I'm a prisoner now."
THE PHILOSOPHER.
There lived somewhere, in olden time,
A proud philosopher,
Who, fixed in his opinions, thought
That he could never err.
Progressed through life without assistance,
And scoffed the thought of God's existence.
But sickness came, and with its pangs
Came loss of fortitude ;
And he who measured heaven's space,
And farther'st planets viewed,
Came not alone a God to know,
But all the fiends of hell; also.
10
146 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WENGIERSKI.
Thomas Kajetan Wengierski, the Polish Piron, was
born in Podolia in 1755, and educated by the Jesuits
at Nowe Miasto, as also at Warsaw. He became a
chamberlain to the king Stanislaus Augustus, but his
unbridled passion tor satires and epigrams caused him
many bitter enemies. All his writings are distinguished
for smoothness and great wit. His ' c Calash " and ' ' The
Philosopher" are short poems, but excellent. He is
also the author of "Organy" (the organs), a poem of
great power and bitter satire. His satirical attacks of
persons connected with the king's court caused his dis-
missal, and he was obliged to leave the country.
He traveled in England, Italy, France, Martinique,
Hayti, St. Domingo and the United States of North
America. He gave a lucid account of his travels in
Southern France and Italy in the French language, but
the rest of his peregrinations were written in his native
tongue.
There is no denying that Wengierski was a poet of
great genius, but his language is occasionally some-
what loose. He died at Marseilles quite young (at the
age of thirty-two), having impaired his health and
shortened his life by all sorts of excesses.
Lucian Siemieński, in his "Literary Portraits," pub-
lished in 1850, wrote an article on the "Travels and
Reminiscences of Wengierski," mentioning many inter-
esting incidents in the poet's life, softening greatly the
asperse criticisms on Wengierski, and acquainting us
with the unknown part of his life and character.
VVENGIEESKI. 147
MY WIFE.
A DREAM.
Strangely 'wilder'd I must seem,
I was married in a dream, —
Oh, the ecstasy of bliss!
Brother! what a joy it is!
Think about it and confess
'Tis a storm of happiness, —
And the memory is to me
Sunbeams, — but sixteen was she.
Cheeks of roses red and white;
Mouth like Davia's ; eyes of light,
Fiery, round, of raven hue,
Swimming, but coquettish too;
Ivory teeth; lips fresh as dew;
Bosom beauteous, hand of down,
Fairy foot. She stood alone
In her graces, — she was mine,
And I drank her charms divine.
* * * * 4
But in early years our schemes
Are but showy, shadowy dreams;
For a season they deceive,
Then our souls in darkness leave.
Oft the bowl the water bears,
Yet 'tis useless soon with years;
First it cracks, and then it leaks,
And at last — at last it breaks.
All things with beginning tend
To their melancholy end —
So her beauty fled.
Then did anger, care and malice
Mingle up their bitter chalice.
148 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Kiches like a whirlwind flew,
Honors, gifts, and glories too;
And my lovely wife, so mild,
Fortune's frail and flattered child,
Spent our wealth, as if the day
Ne'er would dim or pass away;
And — 0, monstrous thought ! — the fair
Scratched my eyes, and tore my hair;
Nought but misery was our guest,
So I sought the parish priest.
" Father! grant me a divorce —
Nay, you will grant it me, of course:
Reasons many can be given, —
Keasons both of earth and heaven."
" I know all you wish to say:
Have you wherewithal to pay?
Money is a thing of course, —
Money may obtain divorce."
" Reverend father! hear me, please ye,
'Tis not an affair so easy."
" Silence, child! where money's needed
Eloquence is superseded."
Then I talked of morals; but
The good father's ears were shut.
With a fierce and frowning look
Off he drove me, —
And I woke.
WHAT ONE LIKES.
" Co kto lubi."
Let the toper his empty glass fill,
And the gambler throw his dice with skill;
Let the huntsman gallop his steed at will,
And the warrior other warriors kill;
WENGIERSKI 149
Let the courtier buzz in the palace gate,
The usurer eat the youth's estate;
The lawyer pillage and prose and prate,
And rob even beggars, with looks sedate;
The monk may leave his sandals where
They tell strange tales, — I nothing care,
If of this world's follies I get my share ;
Let each just as he likes — that's fair.
The end of life is happiness. — Pursue
That end life's transitory journey through,
Nor fear, on earth, while happiness pursuing,
That thou art storing up for heaven thy ruin.
But if thou fear the future, oh, beware
At every step, and tread with cautious care;
For in this world, to sin and sin unheeded,
A very decent character is needed ;
So get a character, and then just do
Whate'er you please, — the world will smile on you.
Helter skelter, a dandy scuds over the streets,
With his hot, foaming steeds, helter skelter,
The dread and annoyance of all that he meets,
Who fly at his coming for shelter.
His horses he flogs and cries " Out of the way,1'
As they tear up the pebbles and stones, sir;
And he thinks it a great condescension to say
" Be off ! or I'll break all your bones, sir."
I saw him once knock a poor mendicant down,
And laugh as the luckless one stumbled;
And I said, " E'er he reaches the verge of the town
That cold-hearted pride will be humbled !
Sure a tyrant like this, one so reckless and base,
Should be curl'd to be cautious or quiet."
But still he dash'd on in his life-scorning race,
Till he rattled toward Nowy Siviat*
* Nowy Swiat," the New World, — a fashionable part of Warsaw.
150 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
When he struck on a stone at a corner — and smack
Went the axle, and down came the hero.
He was thrown like a stone from a sling, on his back,
And his pride sunk at once below zero.
I have seen him on crutches, and hope he has found
This secret — I need not reveal it, —
'Tis easy indeed to occasion a wound,
But not very easy to heal it.
TREMBECKI. 151
TREMBECKI.
Stanislaus Trembecki was a man of extraordinary
powers of mind. He possessed the greatest facility of
being easily impressed with all kinds of literary crea-
tions. He was well versed in Latin literature, wrote
in French as well as in Polish, and was thoroughly
learned in all Slavonic languages. In life, and in the
world around him, objects presented themselves to him
only as themes for writing poetry upon. He praised
many people and many things, but he loved no one
and nothing. He never had a soul-attachment to any
one. Persons and things that interested him he loved
but for a little while. "Not having the popularity of
Krasicki, he was superior to him in taste and poetic
talent. Among the learned he had a great repute.
He composed satires, letters, fables, on common and
political subjects. We must also add that he was dis-
tinguished in epic poetry. In his lyrics he was cold
and constrained, but occasionally he warmed up with
patriotic feeling, but even then he was more eloquent
than poetic. His satires were the fruits of momentary
impressions and tools of contention. Open and hab-
itual derider, he comes out with bitterness and severity,
never trying to smooth things over with harmless wit
or even irony, frequently using common and even
coarse expressions. In his panegyrics he frequently
piles flattery with great profusion. Epic poetry was his
chief pursuit, in which he distinguished himself as the
poet most conversant with the patterns of the masters
of antiquity. Initiated into the mysteries of poetic
spirit, in the riches and adaptation of his native
152 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
tongue he was gifted with aesthetic feeling and a deli-
cate taste. Although an imitator and a disciple of a
new school, he did not know how to become a national
writer, neither did he wish to approach the grateful
simplicity and freshness of the poets of Sigismund's
times, yet he equaled them in power, dignity, and fer-
tility, but in the outward smoothness and polish consid-
erably outstripped them.
His most celebrated poem is "Zofiówka" (Sophia's
Park or Garden), a description of a garden of that
name, the property of Count Potocki, situated close to
the city of Humań, in Ukraine. In this park of mag-
nificent proportions and great beauty is a grotto, on
entering which your senses are struck with a delightful
sight of rare works of art and many wonderful curiosi-
ties. As you gaze around it the spell of enchantment
only increases, and you almost imagine that you have
entered the gates of Paradise. The following in scrip tion
in Polish may perhaps be seen up to this day over the
grotto, the meaning of which is this:
Before you enter here leave your troubles all behind, —
If you're already happy, more happiness you'll find.
The conciseness of presenting high thoughts, the power,
skill, and the appropriateness in description, the inim-
itable skill in the outer form of the verse, distinguish
him from all his contemporaries. Trembecki has been
called more of an artist than a poet.
He was born in 1723. While yet very young he
traveled over nearly all Europe, and resided for some
time in Paris, where he contracted a friendly intimacy
with many distinguished French poets. It was there
that he was impressed with the philosophy of the eigh-
teenth century, and with the manners and customs of
TREMBECKI. 153
the French court of Louis XV. He fought thirty duels,
the cause of almost every one being women. Returning
to his country he became chamberlain to King Stanis-
laus Augustus; from this time hence he lived at War-
saw, and was engaged in the, composition of different
kinds of verses. After the abdication of King Ponia-
towski he remained with him continually at Grodno
and St. Petersburg. After the king's death he resided
at Tulczyn, in the Province of Podolia, at Count
Potocki' s manor. For thirty years he never ate meat
nor drank any wine. Toward the end of his life he
associated with but very few, and scarcely left his
house. He spent one clay in the week giving alms.
He died in 1812.
All his works were published in 1828, in two vol-
umes, at Breslau, and in Leipsic in 1806 and 1836.
Quite a learned dissertation on Trembecki's poetry was
published by Hippolitus Klimaszewski in 1830. "Zo-
fiówka" was translated into French by De Lagarde.
BALLOON.
Where the eagle in his rapid flight
With strong pursuit the birds do scare —
And lurid thunderbolts with angry might
Rush through the regions of the air.
A strange pair whom fear has never checked,
Resolved to o'ercome Nature's laws;
And striking the road where Icarus wrecked,
Soared through the clouds without a pause.
With gas the vehicle the pair innate,
Upward the air its course inclines —
Its chains are threads, its rudder is fate,
They are competing with the winds.
154 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The lofty, gorgeous houses, one by one,
Lessen and disappear from sight,
And looking from the trap of the balloon —
A ruined heap they all unite.
The broad Vistula, so august and grand,
Looked like a stream whose drops would fail,
Its width like a finger from a child's hand,
Though it flowed grandly in the vale.
Yet some attribute wonders strangely great
To this unsafe and crazy craft,
Perhaps 'tis so, yet I may truly state,
Wise men have at their judgment laughed.
Yet we admit that Nature's giant might
Has burst strong walls of stone and steel,
Man's wisdom, too, all obstacles shall smite —
But give him time with work and zeal.
With gallant ships his fertile brain has filled
The stormy and the pathless main,
Of gems to rob the ocean he is skilled —
Eternal rocks he rends in twain.
The mighty elements their wrath forego
Under his skilled and wise command;
He bids the waters leave the valleys low,
And mountains sink to level land !
NIEMCEWICZ.
NIEMCEWICZ. 157
NIEMCEWICZ.
With pleasure Heaven itself surveys
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with the falling state. Pope.
Julian Ursin Niemcewicz, secretary to the senate of
the kingdom of Poland, and soon after a senator,
president of the Royal Society of Science of Warsaw,
and member of many literary societies in Europe and
America, was born of an ancient and respectable family
in Lithuania, in the year 1T5S. As citizen, statesman,
author, historian, and poet, he shone with an eclat
unparalleled since the clays of Crichton. While still
very young he was elected representative of the palati-
nate of Polish Livonia to the diets of 1788 and 1792.
Much civil courage was requisite in those assemblies to
combat the menaces and intrigues of the factions, and
much activity to repress the turbulence of the people;
for in addition to the dangers to be apprehended from
exterior enemies, the ambition, interest, and prejudices
of the great, and the ignorance of the people, were
opposed to the efforts of the patriots.
The young Niemcewicz, endowed with a generous
mind and superior talents, knew how to merit this
doubje praise. Amidst the representatives of his
country his eloquence was poured forth in defense of
the sacred cause of rational liberty, and sustained the
rights of the peasant against the usurped privileges of
the aristocrat when this important question was before
the house. To disseminate his principles he united
with two of his colleagues, — the castellan Thadeus
158 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Mostowski, and the representative of Livonia, Joseph
Weyssenhoff, in publishing a political journal; and
notwithstanding the s-hort duration of " The Foreign
and National Gazette " (1st January, 1791), it rendered
important service to the public cause. The muse of
Niemcewicz, by chanting in spirited strains the exploits
of the heroes of his country, kindled the torch of
patriotism in the breasts of their compatriots. The
laurel that entwines the brow of the hero would wither
in his tomb if, like that of Achilles, it were not pre-
served by the bard in unfading freshness. Niemcewicz
also made the theater subservient to his ruling passion.
One of his comedies, the "Return of the Representa-
tive," displays equally his talents and public spirit.
During the public fetes on the anniversary of the 3d
of May, 1791, a new drama (Casimir the Great) had
the honor of embellishing the national rejoicings,
adding to his fame, and acquiring lasting and deserved
popularity. The memorable day on which it was
enacted was the last of Poland's happiness. A handful
of traitors, bribed by the empress, Catharine III, sup-
ported by her troops, and encouraged by the shameful
irresolution of King Stanislaus Augustus, with the deadly
blight of their treason blasted the councils of the
brave, and prepared for the ruin of their unfortunate
country. But Poland did not yield without covering
herself with immortal glory during the last moments
of her political existence. The illustrious Kościuszko
raised the standard of independence, and placed him-
self at the head of those brave men who resolved to
bury themselves under the ruins of their country. The
young Niemcewicz became aid-de-camp to the general-
issimo. It was he who composed the proclamations,
orders of the day, and bulletins of the battles, — all
NIEMCEWICZ. 1 59
dictated by ardent love for Poland and for glory. But
when, after unhoped-for success, the fatal day of the
10th of October, 1794, covered Poland with mourning,
and Kościuszko, pierced with wounds, fell into the
hands of the enemy on the field of Macieiowice, the
brave Niemcewicz, also grievously wounded, shared
his fate. They were sent, with a number of other
illustrious victims, to the dungeons of St. Petersburg.
In their solitary confinement they mourned over the
fate of Poland until the accession of Paul I to the
throne of Russia restored 14,000 Polanders, dispersed
through Siberia and the different strongholds of the
vast Russian empire, to liberty. But the virtuous
Niemcewicz seemed destined to form an exception to
the amnesty of 1797. Niemcewicz still inspired the
new czar with suspicion. "I fear," said Paul, "that
his ardent mind, vast intellectual powers, and persua-
sive eloquence will excite new troubles in my empire."
The entreaties of Kościuszko overcame the fears of the
czar, and Niemcewicz followed his immortal friend into
that refuge of oppressed virtue, the hospitable land
of America. In exile, as well as in captivity, he found
in letters his chief consolation. It was in his Russian
prison that he composed his beautiful translation of the
"Rape of the Lock," and of "Racine's Athalia."
Desirous of seeing his family he sailed for Warsaw in
1809, and there published his works in twelve volumes.
Received into the Scientific Society, he joined in their
labors, and wrote some political tracts, which are
greatly esteemed. It was in Paris, in 1803, that he
was invited into Russia, where the government offered
him employment; but disdaining to serve the spoilers
of his country, he refused the offers of Alexander, and
returned to America, where he married a lady native of
160 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
]STew Jersey, whose talents and agreeable qualities
formed the frequent theme of his muse during his short
visit to Europe. During his former visit to America
he had, with his general, Kościuszko, been admitted into
the friendship of the immortal Washington. In the verd-
ant groves of his charming residence in Mount Yernon,
and on the banks of the superb Potomac, Niemcewicz
mused on the condition of his beloved Poland, or con-
templated the august' figure of the most virtuous of
Americans, until his sentiments of respect and venera-
tion for this hero found utterance in his biography of
George Washington. The events of 1806, the creation
of the grand duchy of Warsaw, and their hopes of
the complete restoration of Poland, caused many of
her patriots to return thither, and among the rest
JŃiemcewicz, who was nominated . secretary to the
senate — an office he filled until 1830. The muses
were his relaxation, science and his duties as a states-
man his occupation, and the veneration of his com-
patriots his solace. Frederick Augustus, King of
Saxony and Grand Duke of Warsaw, conferred upon
him the order of St. Stanislaus. He was afterward
nominated a member of the Directory of Public In-
struction; he devoted himself to this honorable office,
which he retained until 1821, when an absolute system
adopted anew by Stanislaus Grabowski, senator and
minister of public instruction, made him resign it.
His retirement was requisite to enable the government
to stifle every germ of liberty. JSTiemcewicz was
always odious to Pussia, both from his services to
Poland and from his avowed hatred to her oppressors.
His "Lithuanian Letters," published periodically dur-
ing the war of 1812, to promote a revolt in Lithuania,
contributed much toward increasing this feeling. All
NIEMCEWICZ. 161
his works aimed at the one point, that of keeping
Polish patriotism alive. His national melodies, his
historical pages glowing with love of his country, and
ingenious allegories equaling La Fontaine's, which his
fertile imagination offered periodically to his country-
men, all breathed the same spirit.
The retirement of Niemcewicz from the directory
did not deprive him of all means of serving his com-
patriots. Called by the choice of the inhabitants of
Warsaw to the presidency of the beneficent society of
that city, he found a sweet pleasure in exercising his
philanthropic feelings. Another proof of public
regard awaited him. The Royal Scientific Society
honored themselves by raising him to the office of
president, vacant by the death of the learned and
philanthropic Stanislaus Staszyc.
Niemcewicz was equally illustrious as historian,
journalist, romancer, and poet. His romances "Dwaj
Sieciechowie" and " Leyba i Siora " (Levi and Sarah)
are of great importance, and were not without influence
on the public mind. Following is a list of his works :
1st. The Secret History of John of Bourbon; trans-
lated from the French in 1779, 2 vols. 8vo.
2d. The History of Margaret of Yalois, Queen of
Navarre; translated in 1781.
3d. Odes on quitting England (1787).
4th. Casimir the Great, a drama in three acts, acted
at Warsaw May 3, 1792.
5th. The Rape of the Lock; translated into Polish
verse from the English of Pope in 1796.
6th. Wladislas, King of Poland, a tragedy, acted
at Warsaw in 1796.
7th. King John Sobieski's Page, a farce, written in
1808.
162 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
8th. Lithuanian Letters, written in 1812.
9th. The Public Prisons, written in 1818.
10th. Keign of Sigismund III, King of Poland
(1819), 3 vols. 8vo.
11th. Two historical romances (1819).
12th. Odes of the Polish Army in 1792.
13th. Historical Melodies in 1819.
14th. Fables and Tales (1820).
15th. Historical Recollections of Poland as it has
been (1822), 4 vols. 8vo.
16th. John de Tenczyn, an historical romance,
translated into German in 1826.
17th. Leyba i Siora, a Jewish romance; translated
into German, English, and Dutch.
18th. What Pleases Ladies, a tale of Voltaire;
translated from the French.
19th. Odes of Pope and of Dry den on music;
translated into verse.
20th. The Miseries of Human Life; translated into
Polish.
1st. Athalia, a tragedy of Racine's ; translated into
verse.
22d. Hedwige, Queen of Poland, an opera in verse;
the music by Kurpiński.
23d. The Return of the Representative, a comedy
in three acts, in verse; this work, twenty years after
its publication, excited the resentment of the Grand
Duke Con stan tine.
24th. Traits of the Life of General Washington.
25th. Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia; translated
from the English.
26th. The Suspicious, a comedy in Hve acts and in
verse, acted during the revolution.
27th. The Yain Man, in five acts.
NIEMCEWICZ. 168
28th. Kochanowski, a drama.
And a number of other works of great interest.
In 1830, the day preceding our revolution, the
supreme counsel of the kingdom having felt the neces-
sity of being supported by names dear to the natives,
called upon Niemcewicz to join its ranks. It was to
his venerable appearance, and the words of wisdom
and eloquence that he addressed to the people assem-
bled under the windows of the hall of government, that
the accomplishment of a revolution, unstained by
crimes or excesses, may be in a great measure attrib-
uted. As a member of the national government until
the creation of the dictator, he assisted in all the delib-
erations of the senators, of whom he was the secre-
tary. He had the signal honor of being elected senator
without the formalities prescribed by law, the senate
wishing to confer on him a mark of national gratitude
and veneration. The day of glory again dawned in
Poland, and the veteran of seventy-two embraced with
all the ardor of youth the cause of liberty; but to him
the revolution shone like an expiring lamp> for eternity
was opening before him. With a self-devotion and
energy of mind that neutralized the assaults of age,
Niemcewicz, deputed by the national government,,
undertook a journey to London to interest the British
cabinet in the cause of liberty and of Poland; but the
days of reverses arrived, and, exiled with the more
virtuous among his countrymen, he returned no more
to Poland. After living for a long time in retirement
in London, he went to Paris to rejoin the greater part
of his friends and colleagues, and from time to time
published little tracts or poems analogous to his cir-
cumstances. In 184:1 he ended his career with the
tranquillity resulting from a life of duty. The Polish,
164 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
French, American and English residents in Paris united
in paying him the last tribute of respect due to man,
and accompanied his honored remains to the cemetery
of Montmorency.
Among the spectators at this melancholy scene we
iind Mr. Gibbs, an American gentleman, who thus said
to the assembled friends of the deceased: "Gentlemen,
the noble Polander to whom we pay the last tribute has
the sympathy of all my fellow-countrymen; as to the
American citizen, companion of Kościuszko and to the
friend of liberty, I outrun, I am sure, and express their
wishes, when in their name and mine I pay to his
memory due tribute of profound esteem. Firm in his
principles, magnanimous and unconcerned for himself
in the hopes of prosperity for the cause of mankind,
his memory deserves the eulogies of good men of all
countries. His name will be placed among those of my
fellow-countrymen who are honored with the name of
benefactors of mankind."
The professors and members of the Princeton Col-
lege (X. J.), at a meeting called expressly for that pur-
pose, passed the following resolutions:
Resolved, That this society has learned with pro-
found grief of the death of their respected member,
Julian Ursin Niemcewicz;
Resolved, That this society, with numerous friends
of the departed, mourn his death, and as a proof of his
services and regard to his memory will wear usual
mourning for thirty days;
Resolved, That copies of these resolutions be sent to
the "Princeton Whig," "National Intelligencer" and
"New York Journal of Commerce."
NIEMCEWICZ. 165
In a poetical epistle addressed to his old friend, Gen.
Kniaziewicz, thus he describes
AMERICA AND GENERAL WASHINGTON.
With my wounded commander* compelled to depart
From thee, oppressed Poland, the pride of my heart;
An asylum I sought o'er the dark rolling sea,
In the land of the noble, the brave and the free ;
But e'en there the sad thought of my country would rise,
And the tears of deep anguish would roll from my eyes.
In boundless savannas, where man never strayed,
Amid woods that ne'er echoed the axe's keen blade;
In the foaming abyss, where the clouds of bright steam
Round the falls of the roaring Niagara gleam;
And on the deep sea, when the white sails are spread,
Lo! the shade of my country, all gory and dead.
Full of bliss to my heart is the thought of that day
When to Washington's mansion I wended my way;
To visit the warrior, the hero and sage,
Whose name is the day-star to each coming age;
By his valor the new world rose happy and free,
And her glory his endless memento shall be.
His features are still on my memory denned,
With the fadeless and delicate colors of mind.
Full, noble, majestic, with a crown of swan-hair.
And a brow deeply writ with the finger of care:
Old Roman simplicity marked his fine face,
Expressive of dignity, grandeur and grace.
How oft on his accents with rapture I hung.
While wisdom and kindness distill'd from his tongue;
Kościuszko.
166 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And whene'er the sad tale of our fall I'd relate —
How brilliant our struggle, yet awful our fate —
A sweet tear-drop of sympathy stole down his cheek —
Better pledge of affection than language could speak.
Precious tear ! a rich proof of his sorrow for thee,
Loved home of my fathers ! once peaceful and free.
And oh, could I that gem which so peerlessly grows,
In some costly and beautiful crystal enclose,
So priceless a treasure a witness I'd keep,
That o'er Poland's sad ruin a great man could weep.
And further down, such a picture he makes of his
abode in the
UNITED STATES:
When an exile from home, with deep sorrow oppressed,
In the new world a pilgrim, unknown and unblessed,
With no light to illumine the shadows that spread
Like the gloom of the sepulcher over my head,
My lonely condition made woman's bright eye
Mould the beautiful tear-drop of sweet sympathy.
But the feelings of pity were soon changed to love,
That bright seraph of mercy bequeathed from above !
With the gift of her fond heart she sweetened my woe,
Making hope's dying embers with sweet brightness glow;
Since then my neat cottage, the meadow, parterre —
Rich pleasures of freedom ! — have been my sole care.
How oft has Aurora, from his soft couch of blue,
Found me cutting fresh grass, all so pearly with dew;
Or engrafting a shoot on the thriving young tree,
While nature was smiling in beauty and glee.
O delightful employment ! — with pleasure how rife
Are the exquisite scenes of a pastoral life.
NIEMCEWICZ. I fi 7
Far away from the crowd of the giddy and vain,
From the thraldom of tyrants, the rude and profane;
From the folly of idlers that cumber the earth,
Wasting life's precious season in profitless mirth-
Ambition and av'rice disturb not the breast,
While hope points the soul to the realms of the blest.
So pure were the joys and so peaceful the life
That I shared with my lovely and beautiful wife,
I might have been happy, could man but forget
When his country with deadliest foes is beset.
But too oft the sad thoughts would convey me away
In the stillness of midnight, the bustle of day,
Thro' the foam-crested waves of the dark rolling sea,
To thee, distressed Poland — once peaceful and free !
DUMA.*
GLIŃSKI.t
"W okropnych cieniach pieczarów podziemnych."
In a dark, dreary dungeon, where the beam,
The cfladdenincf beam of sunlight never shone:
Where from the dismal roof its little stream
Of twilight pour'd a pendent lamp; — alone
And conscience-tortured — sat, to misery bound,
Gliński — in victory and in crime renown'd.
His forehead years and grief had furrow'd o'er.
His grey hair hung disorders on his brow ;
His bloody sockets saw the light no more;
Plough'd were his wasted cheeks with scars and woe.
He sat and lean'd upon his hand: — his groans
Were echoed by the dungeon's gloomy stones.
* A Duma, an elegiac poem; a plaintive song
t Gliński was a Polish chief who flourished at the beginning of
the sixteenth century. The events referred to in this Elegy took
place in 1515.
168 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND-
With him his only child, his daughter fair,
A very gem of virtue, grace and youth.
She left the smiling world and the free air,
Her miserable father's woes to soothe;
Pleased in that fearful solitude to stay,
While life's young bloom fled silently away.
" Father! I pray thee by these tender tears " —
So spake the maid — " be comforted, and chase
Despair; though chains hang heavy on thy years,
Yet hope deserts not e'en this desert place.
Time may smile upon thee; thou may'st rest
Thy gray old age upon thy country's breast."
" My country! breathe not that dread name to* me,
For crimes rush down upon my tortured thought.
And wakened conscience gnaws the memory,
And gentle sleep these eyes will visit not.
Did I not head her foes! — And can the name
Of * traitor ' but be link'd to death and shame?
"AH that can raise a man above mankind, —
All that is good and great in war or peace, —
Power — riches — beauty — courage — strength of mind,—
Yes! nature gave me these, and more than these.
I wanted nought but laurels — which I found —
And glory's trophies wreathed my temples round.
" The locust-swarming hosts of Tartans broke
Upon Lithuania and Volhynia's land,
Plundering, destroying; their terrific yoke
Spared neither sex nor age ; the fiery brand
Of desolation swept the country o'er —
Children and mothers drown'd in fathers' gore.
" I sought the invaders' ravage to withstand.
Proud of their strength, in widespread camps they lay;
NIEMCEWICZ. 169
But they were scattered by my victor hand.
The misty eve look'd on the battle fray,
While corpses on the Niemen's waters rode,
And Infidel blood the thirsty fields o'erflow'd.
" When Alexander on his dying bed
Lay, mourn'd by all his children-subjects, came
The news that the defeated Tartars fled,
Upon his clouded brow joy's holy flame
Kindled sweet peace. ' Now let me, let me die,
For I bequeath to Poland victory ! '
" My deeds, my monarch's praises, warm'd my breast,
And love of daring violence grew. The fame
Of Zabrzezynki oft disturb'd my rest.
I — a most foul and midnight murderer — came
And butcher'd all in sleep. My Poles rebell'd —
I join'd with Poland's foes, by rage impelled.
"Flagitious sin, and memory's fiercest smart;
The eagle blended with the hurrying steed *
From cruelty and crime won not my heart,
Nor sheath'd the sword that did the cruel deed.
The foemen Russ I bent to my control,
And fought 'gainst Poles — e'en I — e'en I — a Pole!
" I look'd upon the battle-field; I saw
Many a well-known corpse among the dead.
Then did fierce agony my bosom gnaw;
Then burning tears of conscious guilt were shed:
And I implored forgiveness — from my king, —
Forgiveness for a vile and outcast thing.
" I told my penitent tale. My foes had wrought
Upon the czar, and roused him to distrust.
* The arms of Poland are a ichiie eagle. Those of Lithuania are a
horse galloping, with a rider holding a sword ready to strike. The
latter is called Pogon, from pursuing. Gonic means to pursw.
170 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
He met indignantly my honest thought,
Dash'd my awakening virtue to the dust;
Bid them tear out my eyes, and bind me here
In galling fetters to this dungeon drear.
" Ten years have pass'd; and yet I live. The sun
And the gay stars shine on, but not for me.
Darkness and torments with my being run;
My strength decays; my blood flows freezingly
Through my chill'd veins; and death — not gentle death
Lays its rude hand upon my weakening breath.
" Yet a few days — this corpse, my grief's remains,
Will ask a handful of unfriendly earth.
Leave then, my child, these foul and foreign plains,
Blest who can claim the country of his birth.
The Poles forgive, — and thou shalt be forgiven.
My child, be blest, and I be left to heaven.
" Yes! thou shalt see thy country, and its smile
Shall chase the memory of these gloomy days;
Thy father's princely hall shall greet thee, while
Thy thought o'er long-departed glory strays;
Thy friends, thy countrymen, shall welcome thee,
Give thee their love, — but pour their curse on me.
" Yet e'en my death may hallow'd thoughts inspire ;
From this scathed trunk may wisdom's blossoms grow.
My history shall check revengeful ire, —
None other Pole shall join his country's foe.
Why should a traitor live when he hath bound
His veil'd and sorrowing country to the ground?"
Thus spake the miserable man. A groan,
A dark and hollow groan the dungeon fill'd;
On her pale breast his snow-white head was thrown ;
Death's shade o'ershadow'd, — and all was still'd.
NIEMCEWICZ. 171
So died the mighty Gliński: — better lot
Might have been his, — but he deserved it not.
This Duma is one of the most popular in Poland. It
is also the subject of one of the best of the Polish trag-
edies by Wenźyk.
DUMA.
POTOCKI.
" Słuchajcie rycerze młodzi."
Come, listen youthful warriors, now,
While my sad tale of grief is told;
And let it kindle glory's glow
While it records the deeds of old.
For I will sing the glorious wreath
Which erst the patriot hero wore
Who nobly died a hero's death
While crown'd with laurel'd victory o'er.
Chmielnicki's fierce and savage band
Had ravaged our Podolia's vales;
The cries of mothers fill'd the land,
Wide-echoed round from hills and dales.
Our ploughmen from their fields are torn,
Our maidens shameless slavery prove,
Our shepherds are to exile borne, —
Not to be exiled from their love.
Potocki — old and hoary — stood
Proud in felicity and fame,
When the loud shrieks, the cry of blood,
Like soul-disturbing tempests came.
He sigh'd; a stream of tears roll'd down
His venerable cheeks, while thought
Rush'd on the brighter moments gone.
But age had come, and left him — nought.
172 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
The will, but not the power, was there.
Down dropp'd the falchion from his grasp.
But see his hero son appear —
Spring on his steed — the war-brand clasp.
Why should he waste in ease and sloth
The brightness of his morning star,
When virtue and when valor both
Had charm'd his ear with tales of war?
" My son," — his eyes with tears were fill'd —
"Thy country groans! Go, warrior! be
Thy bosom now thy country's shield, —
Be worthy of thy sires and me !
Go ! — for thy country live ! Be blest
With triumph glorious and renown'd!
So calmly shall I sink to rest
When I have seen thee victory-crown'd."
A fond farewell sent forth his son,
When he had bound him to his breast.
He put the heavy armor on;
The while a golden helmet prest
The raven ringlets of his hair:
Yet ere he sought his warriors he
Saw midst many a maiden fair
His maiden at a balcony.
She was a maid of beauty rare —
The loveliest maid Podolia knew —
Fair as the morning rose is fair
When blushing and when bathed in dew.
And she was true to love and fame,
And young, — and pledged her hand and heart
To him whose valiant sword should claim
In battle fray the bravest part.
Then drew the ardent hero nigh,
And lowly bent on reverent knee:
NIEMCEWICZ. 173
"O thou, my heart's felicity,
All, all life's sweets I owe to thee!
Now bless me in the field of death,
And smile upon me, struggling there.
My heart's best blood, my latest breath,
I'll pour for fame and thee, my fair!"
His heart was full — he spoke no more.
Her eyes were wet — the maid unbound
The snow-white scarf her bosom wore,
And girt the hero's shoulders round.
" Go! rescue what is lost! My vow
By this pure pledge shall fail thee never!
Be crown'd with bright affection now,
Be crown'd with bliss, with fame, forever!"
Meanwhile the piercing clarions sound,
The dust-clouds o'er the plains arise;
The troops of warriors gather round.
While helms and armor dim the eyes.
The courts, the gates, the lofty walls
A thousand anxious gazers show.
The slow-descending drawbridge falls,
While to the gory fight they go.
łTwas evening. Through a gloomy night
Toward the Yellow Lake they sped.
The morning came, but not in light, —
'Twas wrapp'd in clouds opaque and red.
The mighty army of Bogdan
Spread countless o'er the extended land;
The brave Potocki led the van,
To smite the innumerable band.
Then dreadful havoc's reign was spread,
The murd'rous fires of death were there;
Swords cleft the helm and helmed head,
And hissing arrows fill'd the air.
174 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The dauntless chieftain fought, — he press'd
The foremost on the foe, — when deep
A deadly arrow pierced his breast;
He fell, — fell lock'd in endless sleep.
Yet victory crown'd our arms. 'Twas vain; —
It was no triumph ; — He away,
Courage and joy were turn'd to pain.
They throng'd around him in dismay:
They bathed his wounds; they wash'd the gore
With tears, — while round the corpse they stand
Then on their shields that corpse they bore,
Their hope — and of their fatherland.
And on a green and woody glade
'Neath a proud tomb his dust they set;
They hung his armor and his blade,
And that white scarf, — with blood 'twas wet.
And there through many a day forlorn,
His joy-abandon'd maiden went;
And from the evening to the morn
She pour'd — she wept — love's sad lament.
Sleep, noble hero! sweetly sleep
Within this dark and sacred wood;
The silent moon her watch shall keep
Upon thy gravestone's solitude.
And should some future warrior come,
And the decaying trophies see,
His eye may linger on thy tomb,
And learn to fight and die from thee.
* Translation of the four lines on the frontispiece :
Ye exiles, roaming through the world so helplessly and long,
When will your weary feet find rest, O broken-hearted throng !
The wild dove finds its hidden nest, the worm its native clod,
But Poland's son can only claim of earth a burial sod!
FASTI DI ANA. 175
FASTIDIAKA.
(GUZDRALSKA.)
A HUMOROUS TALE OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
In an old tatter'd chronicle, whose pages
Had been defaced and stain'd by ruthless time,-
A dusty fragment of departed ages,
When Casimir, the monk, o'er Poland's clime
As sovereign ruled, — but older far than he, —
I found this strange, recorded history.
Near Łenczyca, upon a flowery mound,
A proud and noble mansion look'd around, —
Its name I have forgotten; and 'twere vain
To rack my broken memory again.
But an old manuscript that long was hid,
Moth-eaten, 'neath a crumbling coffer-lid;
It tired my weary, eyes, — though I possess'd
A microscopic glass, — the brightest, best,
Which magnified a hundredfold, at last
Gave me some light, — and my reward was vast.
There lived a noble, whose proud wish aspired
To honor, — and he found what he desired.
A Truchses* now, — and next a Stolnikf. His
Were piles of wealth, — and towns and palaces.
That matters not: his pride, his boastings were
Of his fair daughter. She was passing fair;
And bounteous Nature o'er that maiden threw
All charms man loves, and all he honors too.
She was a very queen of grace, whose skill
Play'd with the heart and wielded it at will.
* Wine-bearer: f Plate-bearer; — titles at court.
176 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The story of her beauty, like a breeze
That bears perfume, spread through the provinces, —
Spread o'er the land ; and many a raptured youth
Laid at her feet the vows of love and truth.
They saw her, and were lost: a single glance
Of that bright, lovely, laughing countenance
Won all the soul. No wonder; — the control
Of wit and beauty ever wins the soul.
And was she faultless ? No ! one little sin —
For she was human — one alone crept in ;
One little fault or error, which — Heaven knows —
Was a dust-atom on a scarlet rose.
What could this little dangerous error be?
Time and the maiden never could agree.
She knew not wherefore years should be divided
In days and nights and hours, — and years derided:
She thought that time, to please a maiden's whim,
Mighty tarry: — little knew the maid of him.
She deem'd her smile should stop the hurrying day,
When in delights and feasts it sped away;
And the wing'd hours in their swift flight restrain,
And to a rock time's slippery spirit chain.
E'en thus she lived, and dreams like these employ'd
The shifting moments which those dreams enjoy'd.
Her dawn was noon, — time's dawn her middle night,-
Always too late ; her place, though noblest, might
Remain unfill'd. At table she first came
When all was over; and 'twas just the same
E'en when a new piece charm'd the theater;
At the last act's last scene she would appear
Nor at the church, O mortal sin! before
The careful beadle closed the sacred door.
She was her parents' hope, her parents' bliss,
So no reproaches smote the maid for this.
FASTLDIAXA. 1 i ,
Yet there is pleasure, — so the record says, —
Sweet pleasure in these lingerings, these delays:
And none of her admirers loved her less, —
Many and noble, — for her tardiness.
But one was privileged o'er the rest, — and he
Was the young Wojewod of Kujavy;
He bore Guzdawa's arms. (And those who bear
These old insignia, Paprocki* supposes
Were long distinguished for their length of noses,
Their large, bright eyes, their crisp and curly hair.
Unwearied in all enterprise, in war
Supremely valiant, — rather superstitious, —
Amorous as born beneath love's famous star.)
Indeed our Wojewodzicf was ambitious
To be a true Guzdawa ; and the youth,
In size, form, virtues, was their heir, in truth.
His life was stainless, and 'twas decorated
With all the gems of talent. Happy fated,
He won the lady's promise to be his.
And parents' blessings crown'd the promised bliss.
Then his brains swam in joy. and rapture threw
Her sunshine on the moments as they flew.
Four weeks before the paschal feast began
The nuptial preparations. Mad desire
Made days and hours and moments as they ran
Linger like years, whose lingering footsteps tire:
But hope, and meditations, and soft sighs
Relieved their tardy passage, as he brought
Her paramount wit, her gentle voice, to thought:
The million graces playing round her eyes.
And her white hands, 'bove all, so purely fair,
Xo ivory with their brightness could compare.
* A famous heraldist of old time.
f Wojewodzie, son of the Wojewod; and so Sedzie, son of the judge;
Chnronżyc, son of the ensign ; — ic is here synonymous with the
Russian icicz, or vich, or citch.
12
178 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A thousand and a thousand times he said,
"She is indeed the sweetest, loveliest maid!"
And then a thought, — sad thought, — would oft intrude ;
" She's so forgetful, though so fair and good !
'Tis surely not her fault, but time's; who may,
And no doubt does, mistake the time of day.
But let us wed, — this weakness shall be check'd;
'Tis a slight fault, and easy to correct.
Watches and clocks shall hang on every wall,
And silver hammers all the hours recall;
Hours, minutes, seconds, — monitors like these
Will chase the maid's obliviousness with ease."
So was he satisfied, — and his doubts were gone.
The marriage contract sign'd, and all was done:
And the church doors were open'd for the pair;
Gorgeous and great was the assemblage there.
The bridegroom sallied forth from his abode,
And no unhappy omen stopp'd his road:
He came with friends and relatives who wore
Their sable furs — adorn'd, as well became
Men who did honor to so proud a name,
With dazzling gold and sunny scarlet o'er.
The chronicle describes the gay parade,
And well-plann'd order of the cavalcade.
Twelve trumpeters in Flemish garments clad,
Which many a splendid decoration had.
And, as the Wojewodzie long had headed
His father's hussar troops, a numerous band
Of spearmen the procession next preceded;
Upon their shoulders wings of eagles flapp'd
And quivers full of silver arrows rattled
Behind them as they forward moved embattled;
Round each a leopard skin was loosely wrapp'd,
Its claws and tusks were fasten'd on the breast.
The standards revel'd with the winds, and prancing
FASTIDIANA. 179
Their richly saddled steeds appear'd advancing,
Their riders all in martial sternness drest.*
Then came a troop of Tartars, — such as sate
With the lord's household, or watch'd round his gate;
And each his bows and arrows bore,
And a wide-flowing mantle wore,
Bending his proud and sprightly Bachmatf o'er.
Next thirty youthful squires led thirty steeds
To decorate the scene ; — their race proceeds
From most renown'd Arabia, and the shore
Of the Euphrates, — whence to Poland's plains
Transferr'd their fame, their ancient fame, remains;
So proud, so ardent, that the wearied hand
Of their tired rider could restrain no more
Their noble spirits to his mute command.
They toss'd their hoofs in air; — the golden bit
Was cover'd o'er with foam ; — their nostrils broad
As if with glowing sparks of fire were lit:
Proud were their trappings, as the knights who rode;
The saddles were all set in turquoises,
And the rich housings swept the very ground :
Pearls were profusely scatter'd o'er the dress;
A target at the saddle hung ; and near
A truncheon and a crooked scimitar;
Rubies and sapphires sparkled all around,
With smaragds, topazes, whose lights and dyes
Blinded the eyes.
Next came a troop of friends, sedate but gay ;
Their silk and velvet garments fill'd the way,
Bound with resplendent girdles; and they held
Their battle-axes, — for their rank was high ;
Then six proud, dappled steeds the car impell'd,
Where sat the bridegroom in his ecstasy,
* This description, though rather grotesque, is a correct delinea-
tion of the costume of the old Polish hussars,
f Bachmat ; — a Tartar horse.
180 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Eight golden columns bore a canopy
Of richest velvet, and the youth was clad
In most superb brocade; his under vest
Of crimson, which a row of buttons had
Of sapphires and of rubies of the East.
There was a clasp, whose glorious brightness never
Could be described — so I shall not endeavor:
It was a carbuncle so large that kings -
Might envy, — brighter than the sun which flings
His glories o'er the noon. Upon his head
High plumes above a splendid bonnet spread.
Two noble youths sate by him: one the son
Of the Wyszogród pennon-bearer; one
Grod's wealthy heir; but both of brilliant eyes,
And gay in humor; and their heads were bare.*
Next a long train of squires and knights appear,
With their attendants in rich liveries;
Each wore a splendid scarf with garments meet.
The cavalcade was closed by a long suite
Of six-horsed heavy-laden coaches, which
Bore presents for the bride, superb and rich.
Beautiful pearls from Uria, ear-rings, gems,
Bracelets, and jewels fit for diadems,
And fit a lady's eyes to please : nor were
The richest clocks and watches absent there.
While thus the sun toward the church was bent,
His busied father stay'd at home, intent
On the approaching festival. He stored
With giant goblets the capacious board,
With plates of silver and with cups of gold ;
Emboss'd tureens, and rich-carved bowls, to hold
Medals of ancient days, — the cups and vases,
Gilded and rich, had their appointed places.
* It was an old custom with the Poles to shave their heads.
FASTTDIANA. 181
From distant forests, wagons brought vast stores
Of their wild tenants, deer and fawns and boars.
Game without number, — which six master-eooks
Who bore their German caps, prepared with all
The due formalities of cookery books.
Mincemeats and spices; — but I'll not recall
These long details. The noblest thing they did
Was to erect a mighty pyramid
Of almonds crusted o'er with sugar. Can
Aught in the art exceed a Marcipan?*
A curiously-constructed lynx portray'd
The escutcheons of the bridegroon and the maid,
Gordowa's and Rogala's: and a brand
Of Cupid's fire they held in either hand.
The table was weigh'd down by luxuries rare,
And all the neighboring men of rank were there;
Prelates and senators; our Truchses vow'd
To give the act its due solemnity,
And went to Skirniewic with a crowd
Of friends and of dependants, but to see
The venerable primate, and entreat
That he wTould honor his poor house, and be
The officiating minister, as meet.
So the guests came at last. You wish to know
How they were housed; — I cannot tell you how.
The dwelling had four rooms and one saloon;
(A splendid mansion, then!) the guests were driven
To rather closish quarters; but 'twas soon
Arranged. One chamber to the primate given;
The others where they could repose their head;
And all slept soundly, though they had no bed.
Then dawn'd the happy moment. At eleven
* Marcipan. A large round cake adorned with various emblem-
atical figures. It is still used by the peasantry at wedding festivals.
182 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
'Twas fix'd the nuptial pledges should be given
Before the sacred altar. Parents, friends,
Were seated in the church ; the clergy led
The primate, with his mitre on his head,
His pastoral staiF in hand, — who now ascends
His throne. The tapers are enkindled. Where,
Where is the bride? — They wait an hour, — they sent
To ask what cause, what luckless accident
Delay'd her. Lo! he comes! — the messenger
Begs for a short delay. One stocking she,
The lady had got on, and speedily
Would finish with the other. Well! they wait; —
Time lingers, lingers still. The clock strikes Three;
They send again. 'Twas strange she should forget
The hour, she said; — but she would braid her hair,
And in a very twinkling would be there.
One hour, — and yet another, — five o'clock,
When other heralds at her chamber knock;
She just was fixing on her robes a wreath,
And would come instantly. The well-bred sun
Linger'd; but as his patience soon was done
Be sank the occidental hills beneath. t
But love had made the bridegroom angry, while
Hunger attack'd the guests ; their empty skins
Began to be rebellious; 'tis a vile
Peace-breaker, that said hunger; — they had thought
Of the rich feast; some little, and some nought
Had taken ; so they suffer'd for their sins.
Oh, had they but some bread and sausage brought!
At last the ladies yawn'd; a senator
Open'd his gasping mouth from ear to ear;
The primate was observed to whiten, — then
The bridegroom rose, and to the castle fled,
Entreating on his knees the lingering maid
To hasten, though undress'd: " Just tarry; when
FASTIDIANA. 183
I've tied this bow," the lady said, " I'll come, —
I'll come indeed."
He hasten'd back, — he heard
A blending of strange sounds which struck him dumb;
He enter'd; — first the primate's form appear'd
Sunk in the canon's arms; — he look'd around;
Knights, senators, were stretch'd upon the ground,
Two palatines, three barons, — vanquish'd all
By heat and hunger; tears of anguish fall
Down the parental cheeks; — his love turn'd cold,
" Ere thou art dress'd," he said, " I shall grow old;
And if to-day thou trifle thus, to-morrow " —
He said no more; but sprung with silent sorrow
Into his car, and fled. Such haste was wrong;
But young men's passions are perverse and strong.
His hurry did no good; — and those who marry
Should ne'er fall out with things that make them tarry.
Yet a few hours, — even though impatient, — he
Had been rewarded. 'Twas exactly three,
Three in the morning, when the lovely lady
Dress'd for the altar — all adorn'd and ready.
184 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
DMOCHOWSKI.
Francis Xavier Dmochowski was born in the year
1762, in the province of Podlasie. He attended the
school of the fathers Piiars, and in 1778 joined the
order, and was employed as teacher in Radom, Łomża,
and Warsaw. He then lived with Kołlontaj, through
whose influence he obtained a parsonage at Koło.
Dmochowski was very active during the great Diet,
and published "The Official Gazette " up to the 1st of
November, 1794. Having left Poland to travel in for-
eign countries he did not return till 1800, when he was
married to an estimable lady, Isabella Mikorska, and
they published during the following five years a liter-
ary review. He translated Homer's "Iliad," Milton's
"Paradise Lost," and Virgil's "iEneid," as also let-
ters and satires of Horace. His funeral oration on the
death of Archbishop Krasicki is one of the finest efforts
of the kind. He died in 1808.
In the year 1826 the miscellaneous writings of
Dmochowski were published at Warsaw in two vol-
umes. Dmochowski has rendered great services to
Polish literature, and in fact he was counted among
the most distinguished writers of the day. His verse
is very smooth and harmonious, and we may justly
add that he greatly contributed toward the spread of
literary knowledge among the masses. He lived long
enough to see several editions of his works, which
serves as a proof of his popularity as a writer of those
days, for he has indeed left an indelible impression
upon the pages of Polish literature. During his whole
life Dmochowski endeavored to be useful in the cause
of literature and. national advancement.
DMOCHOWSKI. 185
CRACOW'S ENVIRONS.
Dear to my heart is every spot of earth
On Poland's bosom, where her sons had birth.
For me, on Cracow's fair surroundings fall
A charm, which makes them loveliest of all !
At every turn, where'er the footstep strays,
So many souvenirs arrest the gaze;
So many records of the past which tell
Of Poland's day of glory ere she fell.
CASTLE OF OYCOW.
Ye who have wandered thro' each foreign land
Have marked the Seine and Tiber's silver course,
And raised the eye to Alpine summits grand,
Should ye not blush to seek for beauty's source
In other countries than your own? Behold
Where scenes as beautiful arrest the eyes
In Oycow's groves and forests manifold —
Its river's flow, its rocks that grandly rise !
186 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
MINASOWICZ.
Joseph Dionisius Minasowicz (b. 1798, d. 1849).
In this distinguished litterateur we find two talents com-
bined, which are considered as diametrically opposite
to each other, to wit, Law and Poetry — a combination
of a similar kind is seldom found in one and the same
individual. While a professor in the University of
Warsaw he was a learned expounder of the history of
the Roman and commercial law, and then again he
appears before the world as an elegant poet and a
translator of Schiller's works, which difficult task he
accomplished most successfully. Many of his fugitive
pieces are written with peculiar correctness of style and
elegance of expression. All of his works were pub-
lished at Leipsic, 1844. Mr. Minasowicz was a man
of refinement, generous disposition, and a profound
scholar.
THE MAIDEN AND THE ROSE.
I the strong resemblance see
Between a blooming rose and thee;
Yet when the charms of both I view
My fancy gives the wreath to you.
The rose its loveliness displays
At most a few short passing days,
Then fades — as I behold it now,
And it will shortly die. Whilst thou,
The theme of my poetic strain,
Unchanged forever shalt remain !
MINASOWICZ. 187
WHAT YOU ARE.
(written when a lad.)
The flower stays in the same place
And hardly moves at all.
Waits for the rain to wet its face,
Till wind the dust makes fall.
But who is blessed with legs can flee,
Swiftly and with power
Can run; so, O God, I thank Thee
I am not a flower.
And animals have legs also,
As our dog has — our Tray;
But they such converse must forego
As folk may use alway.
Between a goose and sheep tell me
How converse could be brought?
Impossible! I thank Thee, God,
An animal I'm not.
No animal — a man am I,
Language can hear and heed —
Can send my happy prayer on high,
And also I can read.
My elders know in great degree,
And in a few years' span
I'll be like them. God, I thank Thee
That I was born a man!
188 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
FELIŃSKI.
Aloizy Felsińki, the celebrated translator of De-
lille, left after him a historical drama entitled " Barbara
Radziwił," the appearance of which awakened a desire
in all the poets of that time to study history. This
famous drama was rendered with such great adherence
to historical truth, such consummate knowledge of man-
ners, customs, and traditions, that it created the great-
est admiration in the public mind. Feliński was a poet
who was capable of infusing into his Tragedy of Bar-
bara more nationality than any of his contemporaries.
On that account Barbara Radziwił will ever remain a
lasting monument of Polish literature. He was also the
author of a "Dissertation on Orthography," In his epoch
Feliński was considered as the brightest literary star.
Feliński was born in 1771, at Luck, in the province
of Volhynia. He went to school in Dombrowice, estab-
lished by the Order of Piiars, and in 1790 became an
intimate friend of Thaddeus Czacki, the great friend of
learning. In the revolution of Kościuszko he was that
chieftain's aid. After the war he spent some time in
Germany, and on his return to Poland he settled in the
village of Osow, where he resided till 1815. In that
year he came to Warsaw, where he was called to the
professorship of literature. In 1819 he became the
director of the Lyceum of Krzemieniec, as also the
professor of literature. He died in 1820.
POLISH NATIONAL HYMN.
"BOŻE COŚ POLSKĘ."
0 Lord, thou hast to Poland lent thy might,
And with a Father's strong, protecting hand
FELIŃSKI. 189
Hast given fame and all its glory bright,
And through long ages saved our fatherland.
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
O Lord, make the land of our love free again !
Thou who in Nature's deepest gloom inspired
The strife to save the holy cause from shame,
The world's esteem for our brave deeds desired,
And filled it with our glory and our fame.
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
O Lord, make the land of our love free again !
Renew, O Lord, we pray, her old renown!
Make rich her soil,— life to her fields convey,
With happiness and peace our future crown;
O angry God, grant us this boon we pray!
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
O Lord, make the land of our love free again!
Not long our freedom has been lost, but flows
In rivers, blood which heroes' hearts outpour;
How bitter, then, the sufferings of those
Whose liberty is lost forevermore!
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
O Lord, make the land of our love free again !
O gracious Lord! whose mighty hand doth hold
The scales of justice o'er world's rulers vain,
Crush out unholy aims of tyrants bold
And hope awake in our poor souls again.
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
O Lord, make the land of our love free again!
Thou, holy Lord ! thy wond'rous might we praise,
Oh may it freedom's blissful sun restore,
On Polish soil the tower of peace upraise
Which foes shall tremble and recoil before!
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
O Lord, make the land of our love free again!
190 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
0 Lord ! who rules o'er all the wide world hath,
At thy command we raised from dust may be;
If in the future we deserve thy wrath
Turn us to dust — but let that dust be free !
We chant at thy altars our humble strain,
0 Lord, make the land of our love free again!
FROM THE TRAGEDY OF BARBARA RADZIWIŁ.
Isabella, Sister op Sigismund Augustus, to Boratyński.
Yes, she has all my friendship, I glory in that truth,
She was a most beloved companion of my youth ;
When I felt life a burden and fainted 'neath its weight,
She was the first to show me life's joys were also great.
When the czar with all the power of the East and North
To blot out the Polish Nation drew his dread sword forth,
Her sire hastening to his post at the army's head,
To Lithuania's frontiers whence his duty led,
To risk the doubtful issue of a battle, all knew
Must be fierce and final, in my presence bade adieu
To Sigismund, the king, and these were the words he said:
" 'Tis Victory or Death, freely shall my blood be shed
For thee and for my country a grateful offering,
And thou shalt soon behold me a conqueror, my king,
Or thou wilt never see me outside the land of souls,
My lips shall never tell thee of the defeat of Poles;
But let my only daughter, this favor I would crave —
With no one to protect her, — her mother in the grave, —
When her father, too, is lost, a father find in thee."
Alas! the dreadful stroke, which he seemed then to foresee
Fell heavily upon him, that warrior true and tried,
He went, he fought with valor, he conquered, and he died.
KROPLXSKI. 191
KEOPINSKI
Louis Kropixski is placed in the first rank of Polish
poets principally because of his authorship of the trag-
edy "Ludgarda," the incidents of which were founded
upon fiction instead of historical truth. Yet it is so
well written that it was compared with Barbara Radzi-
wił of Feliński. It contains indeed many beautiful
passages, but. on the whole, it reminds one that it is
an imitation of French tragedies. At this present
time, aside from fine poetic verses, it has no value.
In its own time, however, it caused a great sensation
on account of its powerful dramatic effect.
He is also the author of a novel, "Julia and
Adolph. or Extraordinary Love of Two Young People
on the Bank of the River Dniester." In this novel it
was the purpose of the author to show that the Polish
language was capable of equal harmony and expres-
sions of the most delicate shades" of feeling with any
French production of a similar kind. He also com-
posed many beautiful fugitive pieces.
Kropiiiski was born in Lithuania in 1767. During
the reign of Stanislaus Augustus he entered the mili-
tary service, and as a lieutenant-colonel participated in
the battle of Maciejowice in 1794, and received in that
memorable battle thirteen wounds. After that event
he went to Italy, and as a true connoisseur he collected
many valuable works of art. and brought them to Po-
land. On his return he acted as secretary of war. In
1812 he was named general of brigade, and soon after
advanced to the rank of a general of division. After
the end of the war he married, and gave himself up
192 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
entirely to domestic life. He was honored with the
friendship of Thaddeus Czacki, and made inspector of
schools and colleges. He was also a distinguished
member of the ' ' Society of the Friends of Learning "
in Warsaw. Ten years before his death he became
blind, and died in 1844. His "Ludgarda," written in
1809, was brought out on the stage in 1816. It was
translated into German by Melish and Pol de Pollen-
burg (brother of the poet Yincent Pol). Goethe gave
a flattering opinion of ' ' Ludgarda. " All of Kropinski's
writings were published at Lemberg in 1844.
HUMAN LIFE.
As by eternal decree,
Four seasons in the year there be,
So has a man —
Four seasons in life's span.
In the spring,
Fearless and rejoicing —
We bask in youth's glad beam ;
Our eagle souls are like the birds:
We sing, we soar, we fly,
Ever loftier and more high —
And in this joyful career,
Sweeping through life on rapid wing,
At errors of our sires we sneer —
But into the same traps we spring!
For youth has many a trap and net,
Crags and lures its path beset.
In summer, too, it still is pleasant.
With beams divine,
When the bloom is most bountiful,
The moon does shine —
KROPIŃSKI. 193
Far o'er,
We soar —
But not so fleet
During the heat:
Begin we then the shade to prize,
Within whose depths experience lies.
In autumn,
Less bright the fields of green become —
Leaves grow sere, and fall here and thither,
And with them our hopes begin to wither.
No longer gaily do we sing;
And tears at times bedim the eye.
Still later — 'though the sun shines high,
And upon its rays at times
Sends a breath of balmy climes ;
That breath reminds us of the spring,
But ah, it is no more the same thing!
The memory of those vanished days
Whispers: " We ne'er will come again!"
This thought a poignant torture has:
No longer we do soar and sweep,
But oft, alas! in silence weep.
But even that season chimes
With pleasantness at times.
It is a sort of " talking matters over,"
The Past, and what future time does cover;
Chatting with friends, prospects and aims,
This or that, the heart most dearly claims.
At last the winter reigns,
Nature is held in frosty chains,
And the white grass-plots
Glisten with diamond dots,
As if to amuse children.
13
194 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
But then, we can't so easily be beguiled,
Since unlike in the spring, summer and autumn,
By growth of green forgotten,
Life to death seems reconciled.
We begin to complain of the present,
And only the Past we call pleasant —
We prate,
And ruminate;
Our senses we can scarce employ,
Like hours the moments slowly ebb;
And like a spider from its web,
From stuff of flimsy make,
Which any little wind may break,
We draw our joy!
We exist only by a fear
Lest something should break — ■
We know not which course to steer,
Uncertain which road to take.
Where are we to live? what does await?
Thus by the eternal decree,
Man's stay on earth does terminate;
In life's fourth goes he.
And in his journey woe betide
Who to the realms of endless bliss
Has not pure conscience
For a guide!
A FRAGMENT FROM HIS ELEGY ON HEDWIGE,
QUEEN OF POLAND.
Too soon she drained the cup of bitterness,
Though her life's op'ning days seemed born to bless;
And with a sadness sweet she bore each bitter grief,
Religion was her shield, pure conscience her relief.
osiński. 195
OSIŃSKI.
Louis Osiński was not only a superior poet, but also
a learned litterateur and a distinguished orator. He
was born in the province of Podlasie in 1775, and
received the first rudiments of education at the insti-
tution of Piiars, at Łomża, where he endeavored to
fit himself for the profession of a teacher. Unfavor-
able circumstances, however, connected with political
changes in Poland, changed also his purpose in that
respect. But he was always industrious, and never
slacked in his literary pursuits.
During the Prussian government of that part of the
country he published a volume of poetry which was
well received by the public. But the poetical field was
not the only one he traveled. He acquired great fame
as an orator. His legal argument delivered before the
high court in defense of Col. Siemianowski was not
only very learned, but also one of the most eloquent
efforts of the day. Another effort of Osiński — "Eulogy
on Xavier Dmochowski," a distinguished Polish poet
— delivered before the society of "Friends of Learn-
ing," only increased his fame as a national orator. His.
command and skill in the effective use of the Polish
language was considered as something extraordinary.
When he lectured on literature hundreds, and we may
say thousands, of the most refined and learned people
listened to him with admiration.
During the existence of the "Duchy of Warsaw " he
was called into the public service as a secretary in the
department of justice, and subsequently as chief clerk
of the court of Cassation. In 1818 he was chosen as
196 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
a professor of literature in the University of Warsaw.
Osiński also published a literary journal with a Latin
motto: " Omnes tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci "
(Containing all the points — the useful with the pleas-
ant).
His poetical compositions and translations of dramas
and comedies, together with his lectures on literature
and his eloquent orations, were published at Warsaw
in 1861 and 1862. He died in 1838.
IN PRAISE OF COPERNICUS.
The highest sphere of mortal glory lies
In power to read the heavenly signs aright.
My song is worthy of Olympian height
To speed its flight. Urania, arise!
The fickle power of man to me is known —
Such little grandeur I unworthy deem.
My thought upreaches to the 'star-girt throne.
I sing Copernicus — the world my theme !
ii.
Free from earth's fetters, following on his track
I from unerring starry ways look back
And measure nature's breadth. In air upheld
These bodies by mysterious powers propelled
Roll on, ascend, attract, and then revolve,
The one grand end harmoniously to solve.
Shall I not reach at last where Deity
Himself, an august presence, guardeth space,
A.nd holds the countless worlds unweariedly
Within his bosom — their abiding place !
OSIŃSKI. 197
III.
Insolent man, and perishable race!
Dust raised by pride which called the heavens its own,
And deemed that nature's aim likewise was base —
To grasp all worlds, and rear to self a throne!
O Men, mistaken, and of judgment blind!
Hath not the world recorded age on age
To man unknown, where failed the clear-eyed sage
To fathom God's unfathomable mind!
iv.
" Must we for all high knowledge vainly pray
To Thee, O God, whose omnipotence lies
Veiled in these outspread heaven's immensities?
Rend thou from them the veiling clouds away!
Show us thy wonders! Man, though frail he be,
Moved by Thy spirit, grows more like to Thee!"
Thus spoke one man — not having any thought
Of what the envious night withheld from us.
Thus, after lapse of ages that had wrought
Their work in darkness — came Copernicus.
Even as the power of the creating word
To nature's shapeless germs gave life and force
While all the listening void of chaos stirred,
And moved to music in harmonious course,
So in the gloom by ages darkly shed,
Kindled by Thee, Copernicus, a spark
Of truth arose — by no illusion bred —
To overcome the world's abysmal dark!
vi.
'Twas night. The pale and queenly moon arose.
Man slept, forgetful of his troubled days.
198 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All earthly creatures breathed a calm repose
Save one alone, who watched with upturned gaze
From where the Baltic's welcoming shore outspread
The wondrous course of planets overhead.
Never had he beheld so grand a sight!
On him a sense of glory seemed to smite.
O hour supreme! O soul-inspiring thought!
To crush the error by the ages wrought.
0 sudden change! Is it but nature's power
Revealing all these mysteries to his sight,
Or changes order with the changing hour?
Does God unseal his eyes to read aright?
The eternal structure shines resplendently,
Its secret workings to his gaze revealed —
More wondrous in their grand simplicity
Than in their vast immensity of field.
VIII.
From the unending, in a moment's space
Nature to fairer form and stature grew.
Behold, ye shades immortal! from your place,
How man's exploring mind creates anew !
O Mind, that sought creation's bound to span !
What thoughts enchained thee — what emotions fired
When nature's triumph, joined to that of man,
Placed thee on heights to which thy soul aspired!
Science! thy power o'er nature reaches wide —
Brings close the worlds that distance separates —
And gives to dust the fashions that abide.
Strength and perfection on its presence waits,
And through thy skill, as by enchantment swayed,
The multitude of forms around us change.
Yet sought Copernicus of thee no aid —
His skill and vision took a higher range.
OSIŃSKI. 199
His were the inner forces that unite
To break all fetters — his the power to soar
Beyond this world of sense in upward flight
To conquer all unconquerable lore !
Higher he reached than any. of his race,
And the grand problems over which he wrought
Shall in all after ages take their place
But as the consummation of his thought.
ix.
As wreck and ruin leave their trace behind
When hurricanes, that sweep in fury blind,
Level and overthrow with fearful shock
Both fragile structure and unyielding rock,
So ruin marks the ages in their flight.
Races are born and perish from the earth.
Earth changes form before the wondering sight,
Her old achievements grown of little worth.
But thou, Copernicus! whose living fame
Becomes our glory — thou shalt conquer Time,
While the unnumbered ages bear thy name
Into eternities that roll sublime!
And while the Pole around which planets flame
Performs the ponderous task by thee foreseen,
Thine own remembered — fills the space between!
200 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
JOSEPH WYBICKI.
" Poland is not yet lost" is the most celebrated
Polish historical song extant. After the third parti-
tion of Poland, in 1795, her enemies said: "There is
no Poland," but very soon after the sons of Poland,
who, under the command of the renowned General
Dombrowski fought in Italy, began to sing "Poland
is not yet lost," which was a strong protest against the
partition of our country. That patriotic song was com-
posed by Joseph Wybicki. General Dombrowski, the
organizer of the Polish legions in Italy (born 1755,
died 1818), actually entered Poland at the head of his
legion in 1807, and crossed the river Warta, and thus
the prediction of the song was verified.
This patriotic Polish song has been in bygone years,
and is up to this day, sung all over Europe, and we
may say in all parts of the habitable globe wherever a
Pole is found. It is always sung with a longing cheer-
fulness while hope is strengthening the realization of
the happy future in store for his suffering country.
Wybicki was born in 1747 near Dantzic. He took
an important part in the four-years Polish Diet, in the
revolution of Kościuszko, and in 1806-7. During the
existence of the Duchy of Warsaw he was a senator,
and in 1818 held the high office of the supreme judge.
He died in 1822. Wybicki left very interesting mem-
oirs, which were published by Raczyński in Posen,
1840.
Many years ago the editor of this work had the song
set to music and published in the city of Philadelphia.
JOSEPH WYBICKI 201
POLAND IS NOT YET LOST.
(Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła.)
While we live she is existing,
Poland is not fallen;
We'll win with swords resisting,
What the foe has stolen.
March, march, Dombrowski,
From Italy's plain;
Our brethren shall meet us
In Poland again!
We'll cross where Warta's surging
Gloomily its waters,
With each blade from sheath emerging
Poland's foes to slaughter!
March, march, etc.
Hence unto the field of glory,
Where the life's blood's streaming;
Where with talons red and gory,
Poland's eagle's screaming!
March, march, etc.
Poland! shall the foe enslave thee
Sadly and forever;
And we hesitate to save thee?
Never, Poland, never!
March, march, Dombrowski,
From Italy's plain;
Our brethren shall meet us
In Poland again!
MICKIEWICZ.
IN YOUNGER DAYS.
202
MICKIEWICZ. 203
MICKIEWICZ.
Adam Mickiewicz, one of the greatest of Poland's
poets, and indeed considered by many the greatest of
all. Almost simultaneously with the daybreak of the
morning star in Polish literature, there appeared in
the firmament of poesy a pleiad of most extraordinary
poetic minds. New bards stepped forward, and their
songs in sounds of delightful harmony penetrated al-
most every corner of Poland with melodies full of feel
ing and ardent love of their country.
At that time, especially, circumstances surrounding
the nation were at once exciting and uncertain, furnish-
ing adequate elements, from the sources of which
countless inspiring themes were drawn and sung with
patriotic boldness throughout the land. And the peo-
ple looked at the bards with astonishment and pride, —
and well they might. They began to discover in these
new creations deep and philosophic truths, though
hidden in the imagery of poesy. They could see
better their past, and began to unveil their future. In-
deed, under these poetical figures, in perfect harmony
with the national spirit, were brought to light the na-
tion's genius and its future destiny. Thus a new and
fertile evolution of Polish poetry created new bards
of uncommon genius, who produced works of exalted
order which will be immortal as themselves.
Mickiewicz is one of those who is indebted to this
creative genius, in which he so prominently distin-
guishes himself, and he was fortunate enough to un-
derstand how to govern the elements of this peculiar
time. His poetic conceptions, supported by reasoning
204 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
and proofs, balanced in the scales of extraordinary
genius, accomplished what he wished; and hence he
created a new epoch in his country's literature known as
" Pseudo-Komantic" It can be said of him what was
once said of Herder, " That he was the first to lift the
world of Poesy on his shoulder, and that he still car-
ries it." In their feelings of admiration the Polish
people had it at the time that Mickiewicz was " called "
to be the greatest creative genius of their nation, and
they were right — for he had lifted them higher than
they were ever before. In this respect Mickiewicz is
really the representative not only of the people but
also of their feelings. Happily, too, for him, that the
materials for the epoch had already been prepared for
him; and that he understood its spirit is shown in his
" Primrose." Being as it was, it is not to be wondered
at that his poetry permeated the hearts and souls of the
whole people, an occurrence seldom to be met with in
historical annals.
When Miekiewicz's poetry first appeared it created
an unprecedented furor. Poetic inspiration took com-
plete hold of the people. Everyone, and especially
those possessed of fine feelings and who could under-
stand him, read his verses with unusual enthusiasm,
and committed many striking pages to memory so as to
recite them to others. All felt as if they were inspired
and enchanted by his poetry.
Mickiewicz exceeds all the poets in the power of
phantasy and beauty of expression. It is true that he
frequently indulged in allegory and mysticism, which
at times are unintelligible, but it is the opinion of the
masses these things did not detract an iota from their
merits. His poetry is so multifarious and diverse, and
written under so many different circumstances, that it
MICKIEWICZ. 205
may be said there is not a branch which he had not
touched and in which he did not excel.
"When Mickiewicz was creating such tremendous im-
pressions on the young men and women, there was, of
course, as it generally happens in similar cases, a feel-
ing of jealousy engendered among the amateurs of the
pseudo-classic school against this innovation in poetry.
The disaffected ones met at dinner circles, coffee-houses
and club-rooms, to discuss and decry this new state of
things gotten up without their advice and consent, but
their adverse deliberations were in vain and fell harm-
less by the way. Even some newspapers begun severe
criticisms, but the pulse of the public heart beat too
strong. They could neither .stifle the enthusiasm for
the young and gifted bard nor their admiration for his
splendid and inimitable poetic creations. But what is
equally interesting to note is that these gentlemen lit-
terateurs began themselves to wheel into the popular
ranks, and eventually became devotedly attached to
the new Pseudo-Romantic school.
Of all poetical creations of Mickiewicz as regards
themes and forms which present themselves to the
learned critic is a poem bearing the title ik The Ances-
tors.'' The intention of this poem is ostensibly the edu-
cation of philosophic thoughts in regard to man's rela-
tions to the world. His "Grażyna" is also a great
poem, but relating to the incidents of olden times.
44 Conrad Wallenrod" is a historical poem, the subject
of which is the crusade against Lithuania, exhibiting
great sacrifice and love of country. "Pan Tadeusz "
is a national epopee, in which Mickiewicz's genius as a
poet is fully shown. " Crimean Sonnets," written
under most pleasing impressions during his sojou-rn
in that charming peninsula. ''Erotic Sonnets" and
206 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
"Farys" bear a stamp of foreign climes. Mickie-
wicz also translated Byron's "Giaiir." "The Book
of the Polish Nation and the Pilgrimage of Its Peo-
ple " is written in biblical style, and very beautifully,
too, because of its solemn and impressive eloquence.
That was the last and the crowning labor of the poet.
The entire groundwork of Mickiewicz's poetry is
feeling, which, if we may thus express ourselves, he
has communicated to his countrymen in a burning
state; letting them know their greatness as a people,
and their misfortunes, and pointing out to them a lesson.
In this Mickiewicz has done, perhaps, the greatest ser-
vice to his countrymen, because if a nation has no such
bards they cannot possibly have a full knowledge of
themselves.
Mickiewicz was born on the 24th of December,
1798, in a town called Zaosie, in Lithuania. He re-
ceived the first rudiments of education with the Order
of Dominicans at Nowogród (Newtown). In 1815 he
entered the University of Wilno, where he contracted
the most friendly and affectionate ties with Thomas
Zan, a young man of rare qualities of the heart and
mind. It was a happy circumstance in Mickiewicz's
life to have met young Zan (of whom we will speak
under the proper head), for this young man having dis-
covered great poetic genius, took him under a brother-
ly care and stimulated him to noble actions and to the
unfolding of his poetic powers. The editor of this
work remembers well reading in younger days this in-
teresting incident of friendly attachment, and the im-
pression lasted through life.
After finishing his studies in the university he was
obliged to accept the professorship of Polish and Latin
literature at Kowno; then he returned to Wilno again.
MICKIEWICZ. 207
Even at this period (in 1822) Mickiewicz had already a
great reputation as a poet, gained by his ''Ballads,"
tk Romances," k- Grażyna," and the fourth part of " The
Ancestors," which we mentioned above. About this
time the Russian Government suspected some political
irregularity among the prominent young men of Wilno,
and instituted an investigation. The consequence was
that over a dozen of the best and most intellectual
young men were arrested and sent into the depths of
Russia. Mickiewicz and Zan were among them. In
1824 he was carried to St. Petersburg, but on account
of his already great fame he was well received by the
educated Russians. Among many friendships con-
tracted in the capital of Russia was one of the renowned
Russian poet Puschkin. Here Mickiewicz wrote his
" Ode to Youth." After a while he was transported to
Odessa, and was employed in Prince Woronzow's
office. Prince Woronzow, being an enlightened and
polished gentleman, treated the poet with much kind-
ness. Here he commenced his u Conrad Wallenrod,"
and " Crimean Sonnets." In the year 1825 he was sent
to Moscow, where he had a place in the office of the
military governor, Golibyn. Here it was where, through
the instrumentality of Princess Zeneicla Wołkońska,
the salons of the most distinguished families were
open to him ; the princess took him under her protec-
tion and procured for him from the Russian Govern-
ment permission to reside at Moscow. She nursed
him in sickness, and translated his poems into the
Russian language. In the year 1828 he was again
transferred to St. Petersburg, was well received there,
and became acquainted with Alexander Humboldt. On
account of his " Wallenrod " he was accused by the
government, but through the influence of Princess
208 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Zeneida received an unlimited passport to Italy, Ger-
many, and France. His friend Olenin facilitated his
journey to Cronstadt, from whence the poet sailed for
Lubeck. In a few days after his departure orders were
received for his arrest, but the government officials
were too late.
In his travels through foreign countries he was
accompanied by Odyniec, with whom he visited Ber-
lin, Dresden, Carlsbad, and Praga, and returning to
Germany he stopped at Weimar and made a visit to
Goethe, who received him with great hospitality,
respect and admiration. From Weimar through Rhen-
ish provinces he returned to Switzerland, whence,
through Splugen, Como, Milan, Yerona, Padua, Yen-
ice, and Florence, he arrived at Pome, where he
remained till May, 1830, and was received with marks
of great distinction by the highest society, and invited
to the "Tuesday Assemblies "at the house of Queen
Hortense (mother of Napoleon III).
From Pome he visited Naples, Messina, Palermo,
and lighted his cigars in the clefts of the Crater on
Mount Yesuvius; later, returning by way of Pome to
Switzerland, he stopped at Milan, and became
acquainted with the most celebrated -Italian poets,
Gross, Manzoni, and Fosti. Through Lago Maggiore
and Chamouni he went to Geneva, where for the first
time he learned of the "July Pevolution " at Paris,
which he had months before predicted. Here, too,
he made the acquaintance of Sigismund Krasiński, the
illustrious Polish poet. Parting at this place with
Odyniec, his personal friend and companion of his
travels, he started for Rome. It was here and at this
time that the most intimate and affectionate friendship
sprung up between him and Stephen Garczyński, a
MICKIEWICZ. 209
young Polish poet of great genius. In 1831 lie left
Rome and journeyed through Switzerland to Paris,
from whence, in company of Anton Górecki, the poet,
he left for Dresden, and visited the Grand Duchy of
Posen. In the same year he returned to Dresden,
where he wrote his " Pan Tadeusz." In the following
year he went to Geneva, where he composed the third
part of "The Ancestors." It is from this place that
Mickiewicz took his friend Garczynski to Avignon,
where he closed his eyes in eternal sleep. He was so
overcome by his friend's death that he thought of going
to America and seek seclusion; but his friends dis-
suaded him from the idea, and he returned with them
to Paris. He shortly married Miss Celina Szymanowska,
a lady of great worth and many accomplishments.
This interesting event occurred in 1834. From this
time hence he became a husband and a father of a
family, but he never again touched the strings of his
lute, — at least his countrymen never heard its sounds.
In 1839 he was called to the professorship of Ancient
Literature at Lussanne, which in about a year he left
to accept a professorship of Slavonian Literature at the
College de France, in Paris, where he lectured for
about four years.
It was here and about this time that he became
acquainted with a certain Andrew Towiański, who
pretended to possess extraordinary powers of clairvoy-
ance, and who by strong magnetic powers exerted a
great influence over the poet, but fortunately it was but
for a short spell. In the early part of 1855 he lost his
wife, and in June was commissioned by the French
Government to proceed to Constantinople in order to
investigate the condition of the Slavonic races under
the Turkish Government. Armand Levy, a Hebrew,
14
210 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
and Henry Shiżalski accompanied him on this mission.
After arriving at their destination they visited the camp
of Sadyk Pasha (Michael Czaykowski), but incon-
venient life and the prevailing cholera laid the poet on
his dying bed, from which he arose only to be
taken to his last resting place. His death occurred the
28th of November, 1855, in the presence of his two
faithful companions and friends, Służalski and Levy.
The mortal remains of the greatest poet were taken to
Paris and buried in the cemetery of Montmorency.
Through the endeavors and influence of Dr. Matecki,
of Posen, a monument was erected to the immortal
poet in 1859, executed by the artistic chisel of Stanis-
laus Oleszczysńki, the Polish sculptor.
There are many editions of his works issued at
different times and at different places, such as Wilno,
Moscow, Warsaw, St. Petersburg, Paris, Posen, Leip-
zig, Wadowice, Thorne, etc. The most complete edition
of Adam Mickiewicz' s works has been published in
several volumes by his children in Paris — 1869.
PRIMROSE.
(Pierwiosnek.)
Scarce had the happy lark begun
To sing of Spring with joyous burst,
When oped the primrose to the sun —
The golden petaled blossoms first.
I.
'Tis yet too soon, my little flower,
The north wind waits with chilly breath ;
Still capped by snow the mountains tower,
And wet the meadows lie beneath.
MICKIEWICZ. 211
Hide yet awhile thy golden light,
Hide yet beneath thy mother's wing,
Ere chilly frosts that pierce and blight,
Unto thy fragile petals cling.
Primrose.
Like butterflies our moments are,
They pass, and death is all our gain ;
One April hour is sweeter far
Than all December's gloomy reign.
Dost seek a gift to give the gods?
Thy friend or thy beloved one?
Then weave a wreath wherein there nods
My blossoms — fairer there are none.
I.
'Mid common grass within the wood,
Beloved flower, thou hast grown,
So simple — few have understood
What gives the prestige all thy own.
Thou hast no hues of morning star,
Nor tulip's gaudy turban'd crest —
Nor clothed art thou as lilies are —
Nor in the rose's splendor drest.
When in a wreath thy colors blend,
When comes thy sweet confiding sense
That friends ; — and more beloved than friend,
Shall give thee kindly preference?
Primrose.
With pleasure friends my buds will greet,
They see Spring's angel in my face;
For friendship dwells not in the heat,
But loves with me the shady place.
212 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Whether of Marion, beloved one,
Worthy I am — can't tell before?.
If she but looks this bud upon,
I'll get a tear — if nothing more!.
ODE TO YOUTH.
(Oda do Młodości.)
Without soul-life but skeletons are we —
On me, 0 Youth, bestow thy wings!
To soar about this hopeless world,
Into the regions fair to see,
Where mind-created imagery
Strews flowers with fancy's dew impearled,
Arraying hope anew in life's imaginings.
Let him bowed down by weight of years,
With brow that bears time's furrowing touch,
See only of the world as much
As to his dull, dim sight appears!
O Youth ! above this level send
The sunny glances of thine eye,
And penetrate from end to end
Humanity's immensity.
Now look below where the eternal mists unfold
The dark expanse that chaos does o'erwhelm ;
The earth behold!
Look where above its waters dead
A shell-clad reptile lifts its head,
Who is himself both ship and steersman at the helm,
Chasing the smaller elemental fry;
Once he ascends, then down again he sinks —
The waves cling not to him, and from their clasps he shrinks;
Then as a bubble bursts — collapsing suddenly.
None of his life knew aught, and neither is he missed —
It was an Egotist!
MICKIEWICZ. 213
O Youth ! the nectared wine of life for thee
Is only sweet to taste when shared by others;
As heavenly joy unites the heart, and we
Are drawn by chords of love more closely to our brothers.
Together then unite, my friends!
The joy of one alike on all attends —
In union strong, and wise in frenzy's heat,
In one all our purpose blends.
And happy he who fails to win a name
If by the sacrifice of self he seat
Another on the topmost round of fame. |
Unite for nobler ends!
Though perilously steep the path,
And violence with weakness guard the gate,
Let violence contend alone with wrath,
With weakness youth may strive, and striving conquer fate!
He who in childhood crushed the hydra's head,
Will later on strike the centaurs down,
Will wrest from hell its dead;
Then soaring up, win laurels for his crown !
Will strain his gaze beyond all human sight,
Crush barriers that reason cannot shake.
O Youth! thy course is as the eagle's flight,
Thy strength like thunderbolts that round him break!
Then shoulder to shoulder linked, as by one common chain,
This earthly globe we will surround,
And in one focus drawn of thought profound
One purpose and one end maintain!
Earth! move from thy foundations old,
To the progression of our thought,
And breaking through the crust that time has wrought,
Let germs of greener years unfold!
As in the region of chaotic night,
- Where warring elements contended,
214 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
'Mid whirlwind's roar and torrent's thundering call,
To the " Be thou" of God's creating might,
A living world sprung up, and over all
Illuming stars ascended!
So darkness in the realm-soul prevails,
The elements of will are still at war;
But love's breath of living fire
Behold the spent life unveils!
Through which youth's heart conceiving shall aspire,
Joined by eternal bonds forever more!
The icy clod revivifies,
With light prejudice disappears,
Arise, O star of freedom, rise !
The morning of Redemption's near!
NEW YEAR'S WISHES.
The old year is dead, and from its ashes blossoms bright
New Phcenix, spreading wings o'er the heavens far and near;
Full of hopes and wishes, earth salutes it with delight.
What should I for myself desire on this glad New Year?
Say, happy moments! ... I know these lightning flashes
swift,
When they the heavens open and gild the wide earth o'er,
We wait t'he assumption till the weary eyes we lift
Are darkened by a night sadder than e'er known before.
Say, 'tis love I wish ! . . . that youthful frenzy full of bliss
Bears one to spheres platonie — to joys divine I know.
Till the strong and gay are hurled down pain's profound
Hurled from the seventh heaven upon the rocks below.
I have dreamed and I have pined. I soared and then I fell.
Of a peerless rose I dreamed, and to gather it I thought,
MICKIEWICZ. 215
When I awoke. Then vanished the rose with dream's bright
spell —
Thorns in my breast alone were left — Love I desire not!
Shall I ask for friendship? . . . that fair goddess who on earth
Youth creates? Ah! who is there who would not friend-
ship crave?
She is first to give imagination's daughter birth.
Ever to the uttermost she seeks its life to save.
Friends, how happy are ye all ! Ye live as one, and hence
Ever the self-same power has o'er ye all control,
Like Armida's palm whose leaves seemed separate elements
While the whole tree was nourished by one accursed soul.
But when the fierce and furious hail-storms strike the tree,
Or when venomous insects poison it with their bane,
In what sharp suffering each separate branch must be
For others and itself. ... I desire not friendship's pain !
For what, then, shall I wish, on this New Year just begun?
Some lovely by-place — bed of oak — where sweet peace
descends,
From whence I could see never the brightness of the sun,
Hear the laugh of enemies, or see the tears of friends?
There until the world should end, and after that to stay
In sleep which all my senses against all power should bind,
Dreaming as I dreamt my golden youthful years away,
Love the world — wish it well — but away from human-
kind.
TO M .
"Precz z oczu moich — posłucham od razu."
Hence from my sight!— I'll obey at once.
Hence from my heart ! — I hear and understand.
But hence from memory? Nay, I answer, nay!
Our hearts won't listen to this last command!
216 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
As the dim shadows that precede the night
In deepening circles widen far and near,
So when your image passes from my sight
It leaves behind a mem'ry all too dear.
In every place — wherever we became
As one in joy and sorrow that bereft —
I will forever be by you the same,
For there a portion of my soul is left.
»
When pensively within some lonely room
You sit and touch your harp's melodious string,
You will, remembering, sigh in twilight's gloom
" I sang for him this song which now I sing."
Or when beside the chess-board — as }^ou stand
In danger of a checkmate — you will say,
" Thus stood the pieces underneath my hand
When ended our last game — that happy day! "
When in the quiet pauses at the ball
You, sitting, wait for music to begin,
A vacant place beside you will recall
How once I used to sit by you therein.
When on the page that tells how fate's decree
Parts happy lovers, you shall bend your eyes;
You'll close the volume, sighing wearily.
'Tis but -the record of our love likewise.
But if the author after weary years
Shall bid the current of their lives reblend,
You'll sit in darkness, whispering through your tears,
" Why does not thus our story find an end?"
When night's pale lightning darts with fitful flash
O'er the old pear tree, rustling withered leaves
The while, the screech-owl strikes your window-sash,
You'll think it is my baffled soul that grieves.
MICKIEWICZ. 217
In every place — in all remembered ways
Where we have shared together bliss or dole —
Still will I haunt you through the lonely days.
For there I left a portion of my soul.
(From the " Improvisation.")
A MOMENT AND A SPARKLE.
What is my life?
Ah ! but a moment short as a sigh !
What is my feeling?
Ah ! but a sparkle soon to die !
Whence comes the little man that plays such mighty part?
From a sparkle!
What'll be the time that'll crush my thoughts and my heart?
But a moment!
And those thunders that shall to morrow roar
To-day what are they? But a sparkle!
What are the world's events of years, and my lore?
But a moment !
What was He then when in his bosom held this world?
But a sparkle !
What'll be the time when all will crash and be hurled
Into the abyss of forgetfulness?
But a moment!
(From the "Ancestors.")
She is fair as a spirit of light
That floats in the ether on high,
And her eye beams as kindly and bright,
As the sun in the azure-tinged sky.
The lips of her lover join hers
Like the meeting of flame with flame,
And as sweet as the voice of two lutes,
Which one harmony weds the same.
218 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
(From u Faris.")
No palms are seen with their green hair,
Nor white-crested desert tents are there;
But his brow is shaded by the sky-
That flingeth aloft its canopy;
The mighty rocks lay now at rest,
And the stars move slowly on heaven's breast.
(From the same.)
My Arab steed is black —
Black as the tempest cloud that flies
Across the dark and mutt'ring skies,
And leaves a gloomy track.
His hoofs are shod with lightning's glare,
I give the winds his flowing mane,
And spur him smoking o'er the plain,
And none from earth or heaven dare,
My path to chase in vain.
And as my barb like lightning flies,
I gaze upon the moonlit skies,
And see the stars with golden eyes,
Look down upon the plain.
FATHER'S RETURN. (A BALLAD.)
(Powrót Taty.)
Go, children, all of you together,
To the pillar upon the hill,
And there before the miraculous picture
Kneel and pray with a fervent will.
Father returns not. Mornings and evenings
I await him in tears, and fret.
The streams are swollen, the wild beasts prowling,
And the woods with robbers beset.
MICKIEWICZ. 219
The children heard, and they ran together
To the pillar upon the hill;
And there before the miraculous picture
Knelt and prayed with a fervent will.
" Hear us, O Lord! Our father is absent,
Our father so tender and dear.
Protect him from all besetting danger!
Guide him home to us safely here! "
They kiss the earth in the name of the Father,
Again in the name of the Son.
Be praised the name of the Trinity holy,
And forever their will be done.
Then they said Our Father, the Ave and Credo,
The Commandments and Rosary too;
And after these prayers were all repeated,
A book from their pockets they drew.
And the Litany and the Holy "Mother
They sang while the eldest led —
" O Holy Mother," implored the children,
"Be thy sheltering arms outspread! "
Soon they heard the sound of wheels approaching,
And the foremost wagon espied.
Then jumped the children with joy together.
" Our father is coming! " they cried.
The father leaped down, his glad tears flowing,
Among them without delay.
"And how are you all, my dearest children?
Were you lonesome with me away?
"And is mother well — your aunt and the servants?
Here are grapes in the basket, boys."
Then the children jumped in their joy around him,
Till the air was rent with their noise.
220 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
" Start on," the merchant said to the servants,
" With the children I will follow on; "
But while he spoke the robbers surround them,
A dozen, with sabers drawn.
Long beards had they, and curly moustache,
And soiled the clothes they wore,
Sharp knives in their belts and swords beside them,
While clubs in their hands they bore.
Then shrieked the children in fear and trembling,
And close to their father clung,
While helpless and pale in his consternation,
His hands he imploringly wrung.
" Take all I have! " he cried; "take my earnings,
But let us depart with life.
Make not of these little children orphans,
Or a widow of my young wife.1'
But the gang, who have neither heard nor heeded,
Their search for the booty begin.
"Money! " they cry, and swinging their truncheons,
They threaten with curses and din.
Then a voice is heard from the robber captain,
" Hold! hold! with your plundering here! '.'
And releasing the father and frightened children,
He bids them go without fear.
To the merchant then the robber responded:
" No thanks — for I freely declare
A broken head you had hardly escaped with,
Were it not for the children's prayer.
" Your thanks belong to the children only;
To them alone your life you owe.
Now listen, while I relate to you briefly
How it came to happen, and go.
MICKIEWICZ. 221
" I and my comrades had long heard rumors
Of a merchant coming this way;
And here in the woods that skirt the pillar
We were lying in wait to-day.
"And lying in wait behind the bushes,
The children at prayer I heard.
Though I listened at first with laugh derisive,
Soon to pity my heart was stirred.
" I listened, and thoughts of my home came to me;
From its purpose my heart was won.
I too have a wife who awaits my coming,
And with her is my little son.
" Merchant, depart — to the woods I hasten —
And children, come sometimes here,
And kneeling together beside this pillar
Give me a prayer and a tear! "
222 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE
LAND.
(FROM LORD BYRON.)
Adieu, adieu! my native shore'
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land — good night !
ii.
A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall:
My dog howls at the gate.
in.
Come hither, hither, my little page,
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.
MICKIEWICZ. 223
POŻEGNANIE CHILDE HAROLDA.
(Z LORDA BYRONA.)
Tłómaczył Adam Mickiewicz.*
Bywaj mi zdrowy, kraju kochany!
Juz w mglistej nikniesz pomroce;
Świsnęły wiatry, szumją bałwany
I morskie ptactwo swiegoce.
Dalej za słońcem gdzie jasną głowę
W zachodnie pogrąża piany —
Tym czasem słońce bywaj mi zdrowe
Bywa] zdrów kraju kochany!
u.
Za kilka godzin rozane zorze
Promieńmi błyśnie jasnemi:
Obaczę niebo, obaczę morze
Lecz niezobaczę mej ziemi.
Zamek, na którym brzmiało wesele,
Wieczna żałoba pokryje;
Na wałach dzikie porośnie ziele
U wrót pies wierny za wyje.
iii.
Pójdź tu mój paźiu-paźiu mój miły,
Co znaczą te łzy i żale?
Czyli cię wichrów zdąsane szały,
Czy morskie lękają fale?
Rozwesel oko, rozjaśnij czoło!
W dobrym okręcie, w pogodę —
Lotny nasz sokół nie tak wesoło
lak my polecim przez wodę.
* Translated by Adam Mickiewicz.
224 * POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
IV.
" Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friends save these alone,
But thee — and One above.
v.
"My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."
Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
vi.
Gome hither, hither, my stanch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?
" Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
" My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?" —
MICKIEWICZ. 225
IV.
" Niech fala szumi, niech wicher głuszy,
Niedbam pogoda czy słota:
Te łzy wyciska z głębi mej duszy
Nie bojaźń ale tęsknota.
Bo tam mój stary ojciec zostanie,
Tam matka zostanie droga,
Tam wszyscy moi prócz ciebie, panie
Prócz ciebie tylko i Boga.
Ojciec spokojnie mię błogosławił,
Nie płacze ańi narzeka;
Lecz matka którąm we łzach zostawił,
Z jakąż tęsknotą naz czeka?1'
Dość. dość, mój paziu! te łzy dziecinne
Źrenicy twojej przystoją;
Gdybym miał równie serce niewinne,
Widziałbyś we łzach i moją.
vi.
Pójdź tu mój giermku, giermku mój młody!
Skąd ci ta bladość na twarzy?
Czy rozhukanej lękasz się wody,
Czyli francuzkich korsarzy?
"O nie Haroldzie! niedbam o życie,
Niedbam o losów igrzyska:
Alem zostawił zonę i dziecię
To mi łzy z oczu wyciska.
VII.
Zona na końcu twojego sioła,
W zielonej mieszka dąbrowie;
Gdy dziecię z płaczem ojca zawoła
Coź mu nieszczęsna odpowie?"
15
226 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
VIII.
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.
ix.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger's hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
x.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves!
My native land — good night !
MICKIEWICZ. 227
Dość, dość mój giermku ! słuszna twa żałość ;
la choć tej ganić niemogę.
Mniejszą mam czułość, czy większą stałość:
Śmiejąc się puszczam się w drogę!
Kochanki, zony płacz mię niewzruszy —
Bo nim zabtyśnie poranek,
Z błękitnych oczu te łzy osuszy
Nowy mąż, nowy kochanek —
Nieżal mi ziemi gdziem młodość strawił,
Nie straszne podróże wodne;
Żałuję tylko żem niezostawił
Nic coby było łez godne.
ix.
Teraz po świecie błądzę szerokim,
I pędzę życie tułacze;
Czegóż mam płakać zakim i pókim
Kiedy nikt pomnie nie płacze? —
Pies chyba tylko zawyje z rana,
Nim obcą karmiony ręką,
Kiedyś swojego dawnego pana
Wściekłą powita paszczęką.
Iuż okręt piersią kraje głębinę,
I żagle na wiatr rozwinął;
Niedbam ku jakim brzegom popłynę
Bylebym nazad niepłynął,
Gdy mnie twe jasne znudzą kryształy,
Ogromna modra płasczyzno,
Powitam lasy, pustynie, skały —
Bądź zdrowa luba Ojczyzno!
228 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
BRODZIŃSKI.
Casimir Brodziński is one of the poets who appeared
on the stage at the outset of this period. He cast his
searching eye upon the just expiring century and felt
in his heart the voice calling for a new state of things.
His elaborate ideas, combined with deep reflections,
he transferred into a charming world of poesy. He
argued the whole thing out, and gave his feelings a
tangible and poetic form. His talent was not of the
flashy kind, but rather retiring and modest, resembling
the light of the morning star casting upon the world its
soft, sad, and longing rays; but this light was not seen
nor understood by all; he shared the common lot of all
creative minds, and of those who wished to implant new
ideas into the popular heart. The public admired him;
men of letters appreciated him for his artistic skill;
it was acknowledged that his dissertations were full of
rendition; but the masses were deaf to Brodzinski's
voice, — it failed to make any impression on their
minds. In a short time he was as it were completely
forsaken by them, and he became as a target to be fired
upon by the youth of Poland. A mistaken and ill-
advised impression was spread that in his works were
concealed dangerous elements. Thrust aside, found
fault with, he was almost forgotten. But the revolu-
tion of 1830 lifted him up at once. Heaven granted
him a gift of looking far into the future. Brodzinski's
poetic genius did not lift him into the empyrean spheres;
it did not carry him beyond the limits of the occasion;
but every one can see that his feelings are not con-
strained; that honesty of purpose and a yearning feeling
BRODZIŃSKI. 229
knocks gently at the heart of others. His prepon-
derant ability was in his inquiring mind, which carefully
reveals the unknown road, working cautiously around,
consulting his own judgment, and profiting by the
experience of others. Being well acquainted with
German literature, he preferred to look there for
examples to cultivate his own talent; but above all,
wrhile fathoming the popular songs and the character-
istics of the Slavonian peoples to . correctly delineate
the national spirit of Slavonian poetry seemed to be
his chief aim. But this innovation caused in those days
great opposition, especially among the votaries of
Laharpe and Boileau, who considered themselves as
infallible judges of every unfolding talent. Brod-
ziński suffered patiently all sorts of personal taunts,
and while forgetting himself he did not cease defending
the cause. He published a highly interesting disser-
tation on Classicism and Romanticism, which was
printed at Warsaw. This dissertation proved to be
a species of watch-word for a subsequent stormy literary
war, which gave the contending parties two separate
names, to wit: Classicists and Romanticists. Brod-
ziński very modestly put himself on the neutral
ground, and would not participate in this polemic
struggle; but by occasional publication of his poetical
compositions in the ',' Review,'1 and finally by pub-
lishing them in a volume (1821-2), 'subdued all
prejudiced minds, and favorably inclined them toward
his innovations in the literature of his country, at the
same time opening a way to a complete reform, not
only in the art of writing itself, but also in the concep-
tions necessary to the innovation. These innovations
and conceptions were taken up by another genius, and
very soon after put into practice.
230 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Brodzinski's poetical compositions breathed like the
gentle breezes of the wind, which seemed to send into
the popular heart a new life; it was a genuine national
breath, awakening in poetry pure native feeling and
turning attention to the land of our birth — its inher-
ent qualities and its beauties; he chose for his images
simple and more accessible objects, — rural life and
scenery, and beautifully painted their simplicity, their
innocence and charms.
Thus is his "Wiesław " planned. It is like the first
flowers in the spring, which are not the prettiest in
outward appearance, — but then one of these is the
violet, and who plucked the first violet in our litera-
ture was the first to welcome the spiritual spring of the
nation. "Wiesław " is the most beautiful pastoral, — the
most charming rural epopee, — and after its publication
it created a sensation such as no other poem ever created
before. The youth of the country could repeat it by
heart, and even to this day the poem is known and
loved by all classes. It was welcomed at its first appear-
ance as a harbinger of a bright star of future poetry
which was to rise over the whole Polish nation. This
"Wiesław," singing forth with the accompaniment of
a country fiddler, the Cracovian dancers, the bride-men,
the para-nymphs, came out with charms unknown
before. If Brodziński had not written anything else
but that, it alone would have contributed greatly to the
Polish literature, and would have placed him in the
first ranks of Polish poets. He iufused into his poetry
all the gentleness of his nature, his feeling, and his
sincerity.
Brodziński was born on the 8th of March, 1791, in
Galicia. In consequence of the early death of his
mother, and neglected by his stepmother, he grew up
BRODZIŃSKI. 231
amidst rural people and rural scenes. Later he was
sent to school at Lipnice. He finished the gymnasium
at Tarnów, from where he ran away with his brother
Andrew, and enlisted in the artillery in 1809. He
served in the campaign of 1812, and the year after
was wounded at the battle of Leipsic, and finally
taken prisoner by the Prussians. In 1814 he was
released, and returning to Warsaw he left the military
service, and gave himself up to learning. At that time
(1818) he wrote his dissertation "Of Classicism and
Romanticism," which called out, as before mentioned,
the celebrated literary war. Laboring on the commit-
tee of the department of the interior he, at the same
time, gave private lessons in Polish literature. In
1821 he taught at the Lyceum, and the succeeding year
was called to a professorship at the University of War-
saw. His failing health compelled him to seek milder
climes, and in 1826 he left for Italy, visiting Switzer-
land and France. Returning again to his country he
continued in his usual labors till 1829. In the follow-
ing year he published "The Latin Elegies" of John
Kochanowski. Falling sick again he went to the Bo-
hemian waters, and died at Dresden on the 10th day of
October, 1835.
The first collection of his poems, in two volumes,
was published at Warsaw, 1821. Afterward "The
Miscellaneous Writings," containing critical and ses-
thetical dissertations was also published at Warsaw,
1830. A complete edition of his works was published
in ten volumes at Wilno, 1842-4. Besides that the
translation of the tragedy of "Raynouard," Warsaw,
1819; "Latin Elegies," Warsaw, 1830; "Of Litera-
ture," in Turowski' s Library, at Sanok, 1856.
232 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
My son, give me my spade and plow —
To labor is our lot,
And though a lonely being now,
I'll guard our little cot.
Within the valley of thy birth
Lies armor we will raise;
'Tis hid within our native earth;
Awaiting better days.
And when I see thee draw once more
Thy father's conquering sword,
I'll dream our night of slavery is o'er,
And freedom is restored.
And oh, my son, weep not for me;
These aged hands can toil
For our support — but 'tis for thee
To guard our native soil.
My hope on God and thee depends,
• And God will me reward;
My corn will grow to feed the friends
Whose swords our freedom guard.
See where yon trees their branches wave,
And shroud the church in gloom,
There, sooner than become a slave,
Thy aire will find a tomb.
And if returned from foes o'ercome,
To me be tear-drops given;
If not, thy arms must share my tomb,
And seek thy sire in heaven.
BRODZIŃSKI. 233
THE OLD MAN.
Young Man. Old man, tell me where to get bread.
Old Man. In early morning leave your bed,
And as the way is long and steep,
'Tis best the ploughshare's path to keep.
It will be somewhat wearisome,
But thereby health and peace will come.
Young Man. Where are your recreations here?
Old Man. No road through six days brings them near ;
Through six days to your work attend ;
To make a home your mind must bend,
And boldly then when earned your pelf
On Sunday you enjoy yourself.
Young Man. Where are your schools and teachers here?
Old Man. Schools and wise teachers both are near;
But you'll lose time to go and ask, —
Be giddy-headed with the task.
But for beginners, full of worth,
Are charts of sky and charts of earth;
And there is, too, Dame Nature's book,
That children learn from as they look.
People there are who lose or gain,
Whose hearts are full of joy or pain;
And they each other teach in turn,
With pluck and spirit go and learn.
Search without idleness; refrain
From asking oft. The way is plain.
Young Man. Tell me where can I find a friend .
Old Man. That great boon none but Fate can send;
With golden nets he is not caught,
With skill nor flattery is bought.
He who has found, indeed, a friend.
Whose heart with his through life may blend,
Blessed is he beyond compare!
For as the body needs the air
234 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
E'en so the true heart needs a friend, —
He who will a few words extend,
If they be kindly and sincere,
Though why, may not to you appear.
Time passes, and day follows day,
Year after year will slip away;
But still your heart will yearn for him,
He reigns o'er you in silence dim.
Will all your hidden troubles guess
In fancied luck or hopelessness.
Your friend rejoices or he grieves,
If your devotion he receives.
To state a truth there consequent
To your voice let your heart be lent,
Exclaiming; I a friend have found.
Young Man. Tell me where pleasure does abound?
Old Man. 'Tis long since from it I have heard,
Others can tell you scarce a word.
Something of it I knew in youth,
Its mother was good health and truth.
Innocence it had for a wife,
Possessed goods many of this life;
Except with children it is found
'Tis vanished now from sight and sound.
Young Man. Pray tell me where's Virtue now.
Old Man. It's lying ill and very low.
It prays for all most fervently,
Its own reward it used to be,
Quietly breathing its pure breath,
But now it weeps as if for death,
And terrible is its distress!
Young Man. Where then can I find happiness?
Old Man. In this direction it lies not,
By every one the way is sought,
But ah ! no one knows happiness,
And so, I think, all will confess;
BRODZIŃSKI. 235
In search of it they still must roam.
You have left it in your sire's home;
Only in God you'll find it now,
Speak gently — teach your heart to bow.
Seek peace in many a noble task,
And last of all your conscience ask,
And that will the whole story tell.
Young M> an. Where does Faith about here dwell?
Old Man. If from your mother you learned not
By children you can best be taught.
The straightest path to it would be, —
Not to inquire of men you see,
Who happy seem, nor those world-wise,
Seek if in love for all it lies
In loving deeds and kindly thought,
And when all else has come to naught
It will, when troubles fast succeed,
Itself into your succor speed,
And to its home in safety lead.
SLANDER.
Unlucky he who stands in slander's power !
Though great, — for worms a lion may devour.
FRIENDSHIP.
Like the morning sunbeam's shade,
Friendship with the evil made
Lessens every hour with time ;
As the shade of evening lengthens
Friendship with the virtuous strengthens,
Till the sun sinks down sublime.
236 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WIESŁAW.*
Old Stanisław came from his chamber-door,
His wife upon his arm, — two bags he bore;
Whence thrice a hundred florins he told o'er,
And said, " Take these, my Wiesław, and depart;
And bring a pair of steeds from Cracow's mart; —
A well- matched pair. — My son was slain in fight,
And grief and grievous age o'erpower me quite:
I've none to trust but thee, the prop, the stay
Of my old house. When I have pass'd away
Be thou its head; — and if (Heaven grant the prayer!)
My daughter e'er should win thy love, thy care, —
Twelve years — rare beauty — thou mayst wait; — -my tongue
Must not betray my heart; — but thou art young."
"Yes! yes!" cried Bronisława, "'tis for thee
I watch and train the maiden tenderly."
(She smoothed Bronika's cheeks while this she said;
And deeply blushed the young and simple maid.)
" I have no sweeter thoughts for her; — and this
Were the full spring-tide of a mother's bliss;
0! I was twice a mother. God above!
Can I weep out the memory of her love?
The fifth fruit scarce had blossom'd; — she was reft,
And not a solitary vestige left.
Twelve wintry winds have stripped the forest tree,
And still her visions haunt that memory.
When war had ravaged Poland, — when its brands
Fired our low cots, and razed our smiling lands, —
When even the forests perish'd in the blaze,
And terror like a whirlwind met the gaze,
As if all heaven were frowning; — overturn'd
* Pronounced Viesłav.
BRODZIŃSKI. 237
Our houses; rooted up, and tore, and burn'd
Our sheltering woods; — 'twas as if judgment-day
Had gather'd all its terrors o'er our way.
Midst sobs and sighs and shrieks and wailings loud,
Through the wild tempest of the fiery cloud,
Our peasants rush'd to save us; while the foe
Fed upon plunder, scattering fear and woe.
Our father's cottage in the smoke-clouds fell, —
And that beloved child, — O horrible!
That sweet, soft maiden disappears; — no trace
Was left; — 'twas all a bare and blazing place: —
I sought her through the villages and woods:
There was no voice in all their solitudes.
No! she was lost forever! as a stone
Into th' unfathom'd trackless ocean thrown;
And I found nought but silence. Year by year
The harvest maidens wreath'd with flowers appear, —
But she appears not; — Oh! she is not there.
Heaven's will shall be Heaven's praise. — I fix'd on thee,
My son, her representative to be.
Thou wert an orphan, and of old 'twas said,
That he who housed a homeless orphan's head
Should ne'er want comfort; — and perchance my child
May yet have found a home, — and 'neath the mild
And holy smile of a maternal eye
May dwell with other children joyously.
So have I train'd thee, — so have I fulfill'd
A mother's duties, — and my grief was still'd
With thoughts that mercy should for mercy pay;
For Heaven's rewards flit o'er our earthly way
In strange and wandering light. Perchance the mound
Lies on her head o'er the dark grave profound,
While her freed spirit in the realms of rest .
Sits dove-like on the Heavenly Mother's* breast;
* The Virgin Mary.
238 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And thence by prayers and tears on our abode
Sends down the smiles of angels and of God."
She could no more; — her cheeks were drench'd in tears,-
Tears, — the prompt eloquence of hopes and fears;
Her daughter's heart seem'd bursting. Tears deny
Their soothing influence to man's sterner eye.
So Stanisław, whose soul was full as hers,
Cried, " God in heaven directs weak man's affairs, —
God, whose all-penetrating sight can rend
The curtains of all time and space; — a friend
And ever-present Father. None too mean
For his regards; — he rules o'er all unseen.
Let grief give way to pious confidence !
Provide for Wiesław now, and speed him hence,
And give him counsel and thy blessing; — youth
Is ever hasty. Boy ! some pledge of truth
Thou'lt bring to thy betroth'd." — In reverence meet
He bow'd, and then embraced the old man's feet;
Then pass'd the threshold, grateful to high Heaven,
Who to the orphan such kind friends had given.
Sweet evening with its twilight bathed the earth,
And lo! the gladdening sounds of village mirth
Fell upon Wiesław's ear, as home he rode
Upon his new-bought steeds, — the shouts were loud,
And gay the music;— swift the horses speed:
He saw the bride-maids sporting in the mead,
All crown'd with myrtle garlands. Youths around
Stamp'd their steel heels upon the echoing ground,*
Then sprung to greet the stranger. First of all
The Starost f spoke: " Tis well to claim, and call
A stranger, friend: from Proszow welcome thou;
*To stamp with the feet is the accompaniment of the Cracowiak
dance.
\ The head of the wedding festival.
BRODZIŃSKI. 239
Despise not the kind thoughts that hail thee now.
Come, share our joys, — the joys which time and toil,
And God's good blessing, and our flowery soil
Confer; — and thou Cracovia's maids shalt see,
Their dances, dresses, and festivity.
Come, join their sports; though thou art tired, perchance
Thy weariness may fly at beauty's glance,
For thou art young." The fair Halina, — fair
As morning, — she the queen, the day-star there,
Approach'd; — she blush'd, she blush'd, but nearer drew,
And proffer'd cakes and fruits of varied hue
From her own basket: — " Stranger, deign to share
Our fruits, our bread, our unpretending fare."
The stranger's vivid eye toward her turn'd,
And with a magic smiling brightness burn'd ;
Aye ! from that very moment eye and soul
Were spell-bound by that simple maid's control,
And joyous sped he to the dance. The band
Of youth, with wine-fill'd goblets in their hand,
Bid him a welcome; and the Starost's word
Thus order'd : — " Let precedence be conferr'd
Upon the stranger. Let him choose the song;
Be his to lead the mazy dance along.
Let him select a maiden, — courtesy
Must on the stranger wait, — and this is he
Wiesław had seized her hand whose eye had shed
On him a heavenly influence, and he led
Halina forth, — a long and laughing train
Of youths and maidens to the music's strain
Beat their responsive feet, — and heel on heel
Like flitting shadows on the water, steal.
His hands were on his belted girdle, while
He gaily danced in that bright maiden's smile:
Into the vial silver coins he threw,
And bowing to the seated sires, anew
240 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Struck with his foot the ground, and lower'd his head
And thus pour'd forth his music to the maid :
" Beautiful damsel! often I
Have seen what seem'd almost divine,
But never brightness like thine eye,
But never charms, sweet maid! like thine.
" Look on my face, and see, and see,
As my warm heart to Heaven is known,
How that fond heart would spring to thee,
And blend its passions with thine own."
Again he led the maiden forth, and danced
Like a young god by joy and love entranced;
Again the gladdening peals of music rang,
Again he stopp'd, and bow'd, and sweetly sang :
" O ! had I known thee in the plain
Where Proszow rears his forest shades,
I should have been most blest of men,
Thou happiest of Cracovian maids.
" The blood that flows within our veins
Can all our fond desires enthrall:
Man plants and waters, toils and pains,
But God in Heaven disposes all."
With dancing step before the youth she flew,
With joyous ecstasy his steps pursue.
Again he takes her hand, and smiles; — again
His thrilling lips resume the raptured strain : —
" O fly not, fly not, maid divine !
My life, my chosen one, art thou:
My heart shall be thine own bright shrine,
And never lose thine image now.
BRODZIŃSKI. 241
" So in the solitary wood
The little warbler finds its rest;
And consecrates its solitude,
And makes its own, its homely nest."
Now in his turn before the maid he flies,
And she to track his footstep gaily hies:
He stops, and laughs ; — again his lips repeat
Words of light eloquence to music sweet : —
" Gospodar* ! I have dearly bought
My steeds ; — my money all away ; —
Perplex'd and pain'd my rambling thought
And my poor heart is led astray.
11 But wake, O wake the song! — despair
And darkness gather o'er my mind:
I seek my home ; — my body there
I drag, — my soul remains behind."
She stretch'd her hand; — again he sings, — the throng
Of youth hangs raptured on his ardent song.
Strike up, musicians ! — 'Twas too late ; for they
Had sunk to rest beneath sleep's lulling sway.
And now Halina fled; — her blush to hide
She sought the village matrons' sheltering side.
And Wiesław to the Starost and to these
Made many a bow, and utter 'd courtesies;
And many a whisper fell ; and late and long
He linger'd midst the hospitable throng;
Linger'd until the bride-day whitening fell
In twilight on the hills, — then said farewell !
His ears were full of music and of mirth,
His heart seem'd big with thoughts, yet void with dearth ;
One thought in varied imagery was there,
One all-possessing thought, — the thought of her.
* Landlord.
16
242 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
III.
Wiesław o'er the field, the waste, the wood,
Sped swiftly; yet his bosom's solitude
And his love-grief were with him : — for when love
Is seated in the heart no thoughts can move,
No reason drive it thence. And now should he
Divulge his love, or fan it secretly?
He would tell all to Stanisław. He rode
To the court-yard, and to his loved abode
Was warmly welcomed by th' expectant crowd;
Sire, mother, daughter, — some with voices loud,
And some with silent smiles. They smooth'd his horse
And tied him to the hedge; and praised of course
His bargains and his quick return. The steeds
Old Stanisław with looks approving leads
To their appointed stall; — but first his care
Bids Bronisława homely feast prepare.
And Wiesław reach'd the cot, and seated him
Pensively. " Art thou ill? — thine eyes are dim! "
Inquired the anxious women. No word pass'd
His lips: he stretchM his hand, and gave at last
A present to Bronika: — still he kept
Silence. Just then a curious neighbor stept
Over the threshold, — it was John, the seer
Of all the village, and though learned — dear:
Prudent in council he; yet free and gay,
He sway'd the peasants, but with gentlest sway:
Honest and wise in thought, — in language wise.
Yet why does gloom hang thick on Wiesiaw's eyes?
The father came, and all were seated round
Their sober meal; — John's jests and jokes abound.
Yet Bronisława could only dream and guess
What Wiesław's silence meant. " O now confess,
Confess what clouds thy heart and stills thy tongue,
For gloom and silence ill become the young;
BRODZIŃSKI. 243
Thou'rt brooding on some grief." The words pierced thro'
His heart; — his cheeks were stain'd with roseate hue;
O'erpower'd he fell at Bronislawa's feet.
"Yes! I will speak, — say all. Indeed 'tis meet
To veil no thoughts from aged friends; for they
May guide the wandering youth that walks astray,
With words of wisdom. Better I had ne'er
Left this kind home, your kindness and your care.
Content I walk'd behind your cheerful plow,
And never knew the war of grief — till now.
But man can only travel in the road,
Or smooth or rough, which is mark'd out by God.
His oracles are swift as rays of light, —
Unseen as spirit, — unopposed in might, —
I pass'd a village, where a maiden sto^
My heart, and charm'd my senses and my soul,
And holds them now. My parents rest in heaven;
You to the orphan a kind home have given —
A shelter to the orphan's misery:
Yes ! you unbarr'd your friendly gates to me ; —
Repent not now your kindness and your love.
Ye taught me toil, and fear of God above;
And gave your only daughter, a wreath'd * bride
To hang with fondness on the orphan's side.
Even when I rock'd her in her cradle, ye
Have often said, ' That babe thy wife shall be!' —
And am I then ungrateful? Is my heart,
My obdurate heart, of stone, that thus would part,
Your hopes, my dreams? Nay! let me, let me speak,
For love is strong, and language is but weak.
Why must I grieve ye? — why my shame declare?
No longer can I claim your fostering care;
For I must dwell with strangers. Come what may,
I cannot live where that fair maid's away; —
♦Wreath'd, affianced. A wreath is synonymous with a dower.
244 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
I hate myself; I'm useless to mankind; —
Give me your blessing. Let me leave behind
Eternal gratitude. Your blessing give;
For who beneath a patron's curse could live?
Farewell! and God shall judge us." Tears of woe
Good Bronisiawa's aged eyes o'erflow.
The old man bends his head, — but not t' approve, —
And utters these sad words of solemn love :
" 'Twas on thy father's death-bed that he gave
Thee to my care, — and then he sought his grave;
And from that hour I loved thee tenderly:
Yes! nothing was more dear than thou to me.
Know'st thou old age is on me; and canst thou
Leave me to struggle with its miseries now,
And rush upon life's perils? — quit the cot
Where sorrow and unkindness enter not, —
Quit every future hope? — Oh, if thou go,
Thou shalt bear with thee shame and tears and woe!
Thine is a dangerous course: — I cannot say
'God bless thee!' Stay, my best-loved Wiesław, stay!"
All wept, except the village seer. His head
He wisely shook, and thus he gaily said:
"How can the old man understand the young?
Freedom is in their heart, and on their tongue
Sweet change; tempt them with love, with riches' cares,
Still they look further, — for the world is theirs:
For them restraint is weariness and woe;
And as the spring-bird scours the meadows, so
Proud, free and gay, rejoicing in his might,
O'er rivers, woods, and cliffs he takes his flight,
Until attracted by some gentle strain
He seeks the green and leafy woods again,
And by his mate reposes. Such the laws
Which nature round the star of youth-time draws.
In vain you stop his course, — and why should he
Be check'd, when God and nature made him free!
BRODZIŃSKI. 245
He holds no influence o'er Bronika's doom;
'Tis mutual love makes happy wedlock bloom:
She is a lovely floweret, to be placed
On some fair stranger's bosom. Father, haste
And give thy blessing to thy son; — for each
Should seize the bliss that grows within his reach."
To whom old Stanisław, — '"'Not so! not so!
I cannot let my son, my Wiesław, go:
Thou'rt full of knowledge; but thou canst not know
A father's fondness, and a father's woe,
When the dear object of his grief, his cares, —
With whom he lived, and loved, and labor'd, — tears
His heart away, and leaves a dark abode
The once love-lighted dwelling where he trod; —
Forgetting all — all, e'en the tears they pour'd
In solitude, — while at a stranger's board
The daughter sits. O no ! I long had dream'd
Of bliss to come, — and sweet and bright it seem'd
To think her mother, when death's curtain fell
Upon my silent grave, in peace should dwell
In her own cottage; — but 'twas vain to build
Such visions ; — Be the will of Heaven fulfill'd !
Go — with my blessing, Wiesław — go; let John
Escort thee, counsel thee; — Heaven's will be done!
Go to thy loved one's dwelling. If the maid
And the maid's friends consent love's wreaths to braid,
Then bring her hither; — John thy guide shall be,*
And she be welcomed when betroth'd to thee."
So John and Wiesław left their home at length:
And Wiesław, sped by love and youthful strength,
Flew o'er the mountains, through the fields and dells,
* Among the peasantry it is the custom in Poland for the young
man who asks a maid in marriage to take the most venerable of his
friends to plead for him. He is called the Swat. The ceremony of
betrothing follows, and rings are pledged in exchange.
246 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And reach'd the dwelling where the maiden dwells;
While thus beneath her window, where they stood,
Their strains of music on her ear intrude:
" The beds are cover'd with flowerets sweet,
And rue and rosemary bloom in pride;
A garland lies in the window-seat,
And a maid walks forth to be a bride.
"A youth from a distant land will come,
And soon to the maiden's parents speak;
The daughter will pluck the flowers that bloom,
And swiftly another mother seek.
" O rosemary ! wear thy gems of blue,
And garland once more the maiden's brow;
And wake again, thou emerald rue,
For none shall water thy springing now.
" The cottage is neat, though poor it be,
The blessing of God beams bright on care,
The magpie cries on the old elm tree,
And the maid in her morning robes is there.
"Awake, and open! — the guests draw nigh,
O welcome them in a day like this;
Eeceive the strangers cordially,
They come to shed and to share in bliss."
The mother from her spindle rose, and drew
The bolt, — the creaking door wide open flew;
Old John and youthful Wiesław entered then, —
Wiesław of giant height and noble mien,
Whose head reach'd e'en the ceiling. Jadwicz said,
" Welcome, our guests! Sit down and rest, and spread
The news ye bring." Next came the bright-eyed maid,
Blushing, yet bending like a flower that's weigh'd
BRODZIŃSKI. 247
By heavy dews. John hail'd her: "Maiden, stay!
Those rosy cheeks an old man's toils shall pay."
Then she blush 'd deeper, and from Wiesław took
His traveling-basket, and his traveling-crook
From the good sire; — she drew the settle near,
And bid them rest; while whispering in her ear
Jadwicz gave speedy orders: " Light the hearth,
Prepare the meal." While with a smile of mirth
The old man said, " I would not now transgress
The customs of our fathers, — I confess
I love old usages; — so with your leave,
An ye will lend your goblets, and receive
A draught from our own flagon, I will pledge
My landlady, for wine gives wit its edge;
It cheers and it emboldens; tears the veil
That hides the heart, and bids us see and feel:
And, as when children in the crystal brook
Upon their own, their very image look, —
So the red wine's the mirror where we see
Our very souls. The honey-gathering bee
Is a bright emblem of our cares ; he goes
Busy o'er all-providing earth, and shows
What order, care and zeal can do; — in spring,
From fragrant flowers and orchards blossoming
To his hive brothers bears the gather'd stores:
So in his maiden's lap the fond youth pours
His passions, his affections. How sincere
Is the pure offering of a villager,
Who offers honest, ardent love ! The bee
Its emblem, — labor, — concord, — purity."
The mother reach'd the goblets. John's discourse
Delighted all; for in it shone the force
Of a clear intellect, which God had given.
He had bound many ties, and had made even
Many strange odds ; — at every wedding feast
He was the Starost, and of course the guest:
248 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And hundred children call'd him "Father1"; he
Call'd every happy home his family; —
And he was always welcome. Now he took
The goblet in his hand, and o'er it shook
The liquid honey.* " Take it, gentle maid!
It grew in distant fields," he smiling said:
11 Take it, for thou deservest all that's sweet
And beautiful in life." Her glances meet
Her mother's eye, and with averted look
'Neath her white apron hid,t the maiden took
One solitary drop. The rest old John
Drank to the dregs; — while like a summer dawn
That brightens into light with blushing hue,
The maiden stood; and the old man anew
Thus said: "The maiden's silence speaks; and now
I'll turn me to her mother: — Wayward youth,
Both blind and passionate, wants our guide: in truth
It cannot penetrate futurity,
But hangs on love, and trusts to destiny.
Let's lead them then, — they wander far astray ;
We'll take their hands, and guide them on their way,
And watch their happiness, — foresee, control
Their path; and God, who watches o'er the whole,
Will turn all ill to good. — You see the son
Of honest sires, — though they, alas! are gone,
And sleep beneath the turf; — yet other sires
Have, pity-touch'd, fann'd all affection's fires,
And taught him virtue. They have given him food;
Trained him, an orphan, to be wise and good:
* Mead is a national beverage of the Poles, and has been so for
many centuries. The best is made in the month of July, when the
lime trees are in flower, at which period the honey is called Lipiec.
Kowno, on the banks of the Niemen, is particularly renowned for its
honey.
t The Polish peasants, as a general thing, always turn away and
cover their faces when they drink in the presence of others.
BRODZIŃSKI. 249
To labor, to obey them, — in the fear
Of God and duty. He became so dear,
They call'd him 'Son'; they made him jointly heir;
And well he has repaid their pious care.
Their harvests go not from the scythe to seek
The tavern; — Sunday wastes not what the week
Has earn'd; — God's blessing smiles upon their way.
Rich wheat is gather'd from their cultured clay;
Their fields are white with sheep, and full their stall.
They have four steeds that bear to Cracow all
The produce of their land. — From them I come.
And ask yon maid to decorate their home
Her Wiesław saw, and seeing, flew and pray'd
Their sanction to espouse that blushing maid.
And Stanisław has sent me to demand
From thee, from her, the lovely damsel's hand.
He said: ' Go bring her here; his guide be thou;
She shall be welcome if she love him now.'
Now, mother, thou hast heard me. Give the maid,
And heaven shall blessings with new blessing braid
I'll praise the youth, though he be here, — though praise
Too oft beguiles us, and too oft betrays.
They deem too easily to win their end;
And counsel hurts, and kind reproofs offend.
Wiesław was modest and laborious; still
He sometimes was a Szpak* and had his will;
He once stopp'd even the Wojewodę: his delight
Has been to revel in an inn at night;
And he has driven (0 sin !) th' imperial troops,
Cesarskie Woiaki f thence ; and at the loops
And sandals of the wandering highlanders X
He grinn'd and laugh'd till his mouth reach'd his ears.
He was a sad wild fellow, but he grew
* Starling, a bold, noisy fellow
f Austrian soldiers.
% Górale, the mountaineers of Carpatia.
250 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
With time both wiser and sedater too:
For as in spring the swelling stream rolls by,
Foams, dashes o'er its borders furiously,
Then flowing further glides serenely on,
So youth is gay and wild till youth is gone;
Till, taught by thick anxieties and years,
It sheds the excess of blossoms which it bears,
And, shaken by the winds of want and woe,
Its flowers drop off upon the sod below.
And he has known the smiles and frowns of Heaven;
To him has sorrow all its lessons given;
And now, to crown his blessings, he requires
A good and steady wife; and his desires
Upon Halina dwell. With her the rest
^Of life shall all be tranquillized and bless'd.
My mission is discharged. — Behold my son!
Give a kind ear to Wiesław; — I have done."
The observant maiden stood aside, and traced
Each shadowing thought and secret jest that pass'd
Across the good man's mind and countenance.
He could not, would not, wound her; for his glance
Had watch'd the influence of each playful word.
But Wiesław bow'd in silence, an he pour'd
A stream of suppliant tears, that said " Forbear! "
Then there was silence, — silence everywhere, —
Till a full torrent o'er Halina's cheeks
Pour'd, as when many a pregnant spring-cloud breaks
Over the Vistula, and flowers are dew'd
With freshen'd joy; while the bright sun renew'd,
Towers glorious o'er the mountains. So the eyes
Of the fond children sparkled. With surprise
And with delight the mother watch'd them, — proud
And joyful. But some gloomy memories crowd
Upon her thoughts. Halina, she had naught;
Nor dower, nor parents, nor parental cot,
Nor hope of wealth. So Jadwicz heaved her breast,
BRODZIŃSKI. 251
And thus spoke frankly to her listening guest:
" There is a God in heaven who judges all;
He tries us when we rise and when we fall:
And, raising or depressing, his decrees
Follow our deeds and guide us as they please.
Halina is an orphan! at my side
E'en from her childhood wonted to abide.
The sun has risen on our abode; its fire
Is far too bright; for how should she aspire, —
She a poor maid, — to wed the wealthy son
Of a rich peasant ! Father she has none, —
No friends, — not one, — to counsel or to care.
O noble youth! May God reward thee here.
Thy generous heart, — this kind design; — yet tell
This story of Halina, — and farewell !
When Poland's crown was by disasters rent,
My husband and my brothers swiftly went,
Though arm'd with scythes alone, our land to save ;
But they return'd not, — they but found a grave.
The cruel stranger all our country razed,
Our palaces destroy'd, our village blazed.
How dreadful is the memory of that day.
E'en now the thought is death ! We fled away, —
Old men, young mothers, — to the blazing woods,
That scared us from their frightful solitudes. .
0! 'twas a hideous, — 'twas a hideous sight;
When life's last beam went out and all was night;
Till blazed for leagues the horrid flames again,
Children and mothers straggled o'er the plain.
T saw them, and I wept, — I look'd, and wept
Till tears had dimm'd my sight. A child had crept
Tremulous to my side. I seized it. Press'd
The trembling little orphan to my breast,
And ask'd its name, its parentage, its home.
It answer'd not; it knew not; it had come
(So said the sobbing child) from fire and flame,
252 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
But it knew not its nation, nor its name.
Strangers had led it thither: — and no more
The infant said. I seized the child. Though poor, —
I was a mother once; — I thought of God,
And led the orphan to my mean abode,
And watch'd it; and her smiles, her toils repaid,
Ten-fold repaid, the sacrifice I made.
She grew, — industrious, healthy, prudent, fair,
And we have toil'd together many a year,
With self-same wants and with the self-same care.
We bore our mutual poverty, and smiled,
Though to a stranger's borrow'd cot exiled, —
Nothing possessing. Soon our wealth increased;
Two cows, one heifer, and six sheep at least
Were our own store. At last, by care and toil,
We won an interest in our country's soil.
We sow'd our land with flax; at night we span
For raiment, and the remnants soon began
A little pile for age. And so we pass
Our life away. We have our morning mass,
• Our joyous evening sports, and once a year
Our merry carnival; but not for her, —
The rings are bought, the wreaths are wov'n for them
Whom fortune crowns with her own diadem, —
But not for her! An orphan, — how should she
Attract the wealthy, or enchain the free?
She has no parent, has no dower. If Heaven
Shed down its light, Oh, be its blessings given
To no unthankful bosom ! — but while I
Shall live, Halina may not, cannot fly."
Hot tears broke forth, and show'd the pangs she felt,
While the fair maid before her mother knelt,
And clasp'd her knees: — " Dear mother! mother, thou-
Thou art my dower, my wreath, my all things now !
Though mines of gold were mine, though castles fair,
And silken wardrobes; yet wert thou not there
BRODZIŃSKI. 253
All would be naught; — without thee, all appears
A blank, and life's bright charms a scene of tears."
And so in silence they embraced. A gleam
Pass'd through the old man's mind as in a dream,
Then fix'd itself in light. His raptured soul
Look'd through the future's maze, and saw the whole
Future in glory. Struggling thoughts broke through
His changed regards, betraying half he knew; —
And Wiesław fain would speak; but John imposed
Peace, and thus spoke: — " The Almighty has disclosed
His purpose, and inspires me. Now I see
His brightness beaming through the mystery.
Mother, confide in my advice, — sincere,
And from the soul. Go, summon swiftly here
A carriage and two steeds; we will repay
The service nobly, — for we must away.
We must away, — the hour of joy is come; —
Halina shall be welcomed to our home."
And swiftly, white with foam, the horses fly,
And forests, meadows, bridges, plains, run by.
But all are sad and pensive — all but John, —
The proverbs, jokes, and tales are his alone.
The maiden veil'd her eyes in doubt and dread ;
He fann'd his growing joy though hid, and said
To his own heart, " How blest, how sweet to bring
Bliss to two houses! " Now the lime-trees fling
Their lengthen'd shadows o'er the road, — the ridge
Of the brown forest, like a heavenly bridge,
Shines with pure light. The breezes blew like balm,
And the fair morning dawns serene and calm.
They hasten'd toward the village ; — but awhile
They tarried, — marshy pools for many a mile
The path impeded; — those on foot may make
254 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
In one short hour their way; equestrians take
Three hours at least. On foot they gaily bound;
The carriage raised the dust, and hurried round.
What joy, what gladness lights Halina's eye!
Why talks she now so gay and sportively?
They cross the planks, — the brushwood maze they thread,
The sheep and shepherds play upon the mead:
She listen'd to the artless pipe; her ear
Appear'd enchanted. Was it that her dear,
And now far dearer Wiesław had portray'd
This scene, when singing to the enamor'd maid?
John watch'd her looks intensely. Was the scene
One where her early infant steps had been?
Now rose the village steeple to the view;
The vesper-bells peal'd loudly o'er the dew; *
They fell upon their knees in that sweet place;
The sunset rays glanced on Halina's face.
And she look'd like an angel. Every vein
Thrill'd with the awaken'd thoughts of youth again,
And longings which could find no words. The bell
Had burst the long-lock'd portals of the cell
Of memory; and mysterious visitings,
And melancholy joy, and shadowy things
Flitted across her soul, and flush'd her cheek,
Where tear-drops gather'd. To a mountain peak
They came; — the village burst upon their view.
They saw the shepherds lead their cattle through
The narrow bridge; the ploughmen gaily sped
From labor's cares to labor's cheerful bed.
The village like a garden rear'd its head,
Where many a cottage-sheltering orchard spread;
The smoke rose 'midst the trees; the village spire
Tower'd meekly, yet in seeming reverence, higher
* The Poles, in some localities, believe that the bells peal more
loudly while the dew is falling.
BEODZIŃSKI. 255
Than the high trees. The yew-trees in their gloom
Hung pensive over many a peasant's tomb;
And still the bells were pealing, which had toll'd
O'er generations mouldering and enroll'd
In death's long records. While they look'd, old John
Bent on his stick, and said " Look, maiden, on
Our village: — doth it please thee? Wieslaw's cot
Is nigh at hand." She heard, but answer'd not:
Her looks were fix'd upon one only spot; —
Her bosom heaved, her lips were dried, her eye
Spoke the deep reverie's intensity.
Remembrance of some joy had bound her soul:
She breathed not, but moved on; — a cottage wall
Soon caught her eye, and near a cross appear'd:
'Twas ivy-clad and crumbling; — for 'twas rear'd
In the old time;— a willow- tree, a sod,
Where the gay children of the village trod
On holidays, were there. She could no more:
She dropp'd o'erpowered upon the grassy floor,
And cried, " O God! O God! — 'twas here, 'twas here
I lived! Where is my mother? Tell me, where?
If she be dead, I'll seek her grave, and weep
My orphan soul away to rouse from sleep
Her blessed form. — 'Twas here I play'd of old; —
'Twas here I gather'd flowers: — but I behold
My mother's cot no longer, — thought flies o'er
Its memory; — but that cot exists no more! "
John answer'd thus: " The God who shelter'd thee,
Shelter'd thy parents; — when the misery
Of that fierce war was over, they return'd,
And joy beam'd o'er the fields where they had mourn'd.
They lost their cot, they lost their child ; but Heaven
Their dwelling and their daughter now hath given;
And they shall take thee to their longing arms.
Thank God, who saved thee from all hurts and harms,
256 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Who, when thy helplessness had lost a mother
Gave thee with generous tenderness another,
And now restores thee to thine own." She knelt,
And clasp'd his knees, while luxury's tear-drops melt
Into the light of joy. And one by one
They enter'd the court-yard; but all were gone
Forth to the fruitful fields. Halina's eye
Wander'd some old memorials to descry,
And grew impatient. Soon the sire appears
With his sharp scythe; and next his wife, who bears
A truss of clover for the stall. Before
Ran young Bronika, gaily turning o'er
A basket of blue corn-flowers; with her hand
Beckoning, she bid her parents understand
That guests were come. " Go," said old John, " my boy,
And tell your happy parents all your joy."
And what fond welcome sprung from breast to breast;
How oft they kiss'd each other ; how they prest
Bosom to bosom, heart to heart; what greeting,
What questions, answers, thanks, engaged that meeting;
And how the laughing neighbors gather'd round,
And how Bronika, full of rapture, bound
Her sister to her soul, — for though she ne'er
Had known her loss, her gain she felt, — I fear
No words of mine can compass. Could I speak,
Your hearts in sympathy would almost break
With the bright joy: — but ye have souls to feel,
And they will vibrate to love's proud appeal.
Yes ! ye have hearts, with which ye may confer,
And they shall be my best interpreter.
KRASIŃSKI. 257
KRASIŃSKI.
Sigismund Krasiński is the zenith of Polish poetry
in Poland's land. It is not only a loving heart, an in-
spired soul, not only a fantasy or art — it is the spirit
of the Pole — the spirit of true manhood; yes, it is the
spirit of poetry changed into the spirit of an 'angel and
entered into the soul of the inspired poet-prophet.
While writing he thought of ages, and ages alone can
judge him. The most prominent stamp of Sigismund's
writings, distinguishing him from other poets contem-
poraneous with him, is the true prophetic spirit, not
under the influence of any play or fantasy, or any com-
bination, but the expression of apocalyptic visions;
hence he is an uncommon phenomenon not only with
us but in the history of the universal spirit. He pos-
sesses such qualities and gifts as God seldom grants
even to poets. From the times of antiquity he took
what Plato had. Prom the law of Moses and the
Jewish history he took the harp of David. From the
new law he took the apocalyptic visions of the future.
With such strange elements, living in the midst of
Europe, amidst our people, and in the middle of the
nineteenth century, he transformed all these into orig-
inal poetic creations. Krasiński was second after
Mickiewicz who restored the high poetic type of the
poetic priesthood in literature where frequently are
found thoughtless leaders, carrying with them the
doubting and feverish community into the regions of
chimera, bad examples and deceitful prophecies. It
was he who took those who leaned toward egotism,
17
258 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
plunging about in the evanescent pleasures of reality,
and carried them into the beautiful world of love and
self-sacrifice. " The Un divine Comedy " is, as it were,
a thunderbolt sent to crush the doctrine of egotism
and human pride, which renounces allegiance and obe-
dience to God. The time, place and persons of the
comedy are all created by the buoyant imagination of
the poet. This fantastic comedy occasionally breaks
off and snatches at moments which are expected but
have not yet arrived. Krasiński was the first who
ventured to compose a prophetic drama to represent
persons and incidents that were to come to pass at
some future time. The scenes, however, are enacted
in Poland, and the time is not very far distant from us,
because persons there introduced speak as we do, have
our prejudices and our customs; we can recognize
them as belonging to our generation and to the Polish
people, although the author does not stamp them with
any nationality, neither does he introduce anything
indicating locality. Krasiński comprehended and
grappled the current of stormy conceptions which, in
but a few years later, ran through the whole of Eu-
rope, and in which were found phases and figures
drawn by the hand of the immortal poet. This re-
markable production, planned on the broad back-
ground of modern social times, takes the point of argu-
ment that the causes of evil arise from social perverse-
ness which permeates the different grades of society,
and from which humanity is yet to suffer for a long
time; and that the possible union of so many contra-
dictory elements can only be effected by the influences
of Christianity.
The soaring imagination of Krasiński had at its call
beautiful and brilliant language, breaking out in new
KRASIŃSKI. 259
turns and harmonious words. His christian feeling
was very pure and deep. The poet loves the whole of
humanity, and he reminds them of the holy truths of
faith, and that the world can only be regenerated by
love.
The " Day-Break" is an ethereal lyric composition
replete with transcendent beauties. A woman (Beat-
rice) is introduced in the poem to quicken into life the
whole creation of exalted order, and above all the in-
dividuality of the poet. There beams the pure and
powerful inspiration of truth, which spreads its thou-
sand poetic colors as the morning star of the day which
the poet represents to his people. "The Dream of
Cesara " is classed with prophetic writings, and is not
indispensably a poetic creation, but rather a descrip-
tion of the poet's vision, yet it is plainly seen that it
bears the stamp of truthfulness and can claim preemi-
nence over all writings of that class.
"Irydion" is a magnificent poem representing
olden times, when Rome was in its decline — its great
power being undermined by the light of Christianity.
The incidents are drawn from the epoch of Helio-
gabalus, and the persecutions of the first Christians.
The author tries to work out the idea that Christianity
neither accepts nor condemns feelings of national re-
venge for intentionally inflicted wrongs. In his
"Psalms" the author explains to the world the mys-
teries of resurrection. He reveals his beautiful,
though perhaps illusive, dreams of the destiny of his
suffering Fatherland; he praises heroism and volun-
tary devotedness and self-sacrifice. Here we can im-
agine that he anticipated the sad events which took
place in Galicia in 1846 (see Ujejski' s biography).
"The Unfinished Poem" is connected with "Undi'
260 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
vine Comedy," and, according to the plan' of the au-
thor, was to constitute the first part of the trilogy, of
which only the second part was elaborated. This
poem consists of five grand episodes, which are not
connected with one another very closely, but yet are
put together so as to form a sufficiently prominent
whole, and, although unfinished, it is nevertheless
replete with resplendent imagery and sublime thoughts,
shining forth with unequaled hue of style. The princi-
pal purpose of the poem is to show the tendency of
humanity toward truth and perfection, and the unceas-
ing attempts and conspiracies against the power of
truth and the spirit of God in this world.
u The Present Day " is a fantastic expose of society
going astray from the true path, but warned and en-
lightened by the words of the angel from ^Heaven.
The poem, being a creation of youthful imagination, is
an historical' romance, yet having the color of the sub-
limest poesy.
"Agaj Han" is taken from the history of Marina
Mnich, and Demitry the pretender. Although there
is much poetic fire in the poem, yet it is pronounced
by the critics as occasionally offending with exaggera-
tion.
Krasiński was one of the greatest moral philoso-
phers of the nineteenth century, as well as the most
inspired poet, whose prophetic vision comprehends not
only the past and future ages, but also the present
century. He is clearly a poet of humanity, who wholly
understood all the relations of society; he was more
than others; it is perhaps for that reason that he has
invented a language of his own to express pain and
inspiration which he saw in the sufferings of humanity.
The power of Krasinski's poetic genius is so immense
KRASIŃSKI. 261
that we have no scale in our literature to weigh it.
The characteristics of his poetry are deep religious
feelings; they in reality constitute the background of
the manner in which he viewed the past and the future;
the suiferings of a people as well as of individuals he
considered as mediums through which come cleansing
and merit.
Krasiński was a stately and ethereal form of a
recluse, or an anchorite, doing penance for the trans-
gression of his ancestors, blessing the people, teaching
them, and showing unto them signs for the future.
Plunging into prayerful spirit, and looking toward the
stars, he viewed the earth not with the eye of a man,
but with the one of an inspired prophet. Pleasures
and amusements of this world had no charms for him.
Having passed through purgatory of life, he was free
from the prejudices of his people; but after deep and
silent suffering, which was plainly seen on his marble
face, he tried to conceal from the human eye the many
wounds from which he so intensely suffered that he
often threw a veil of mystery over himself, desiring
only to appear to the people as their brother mortal,
who was at all times burning offerings at the altar of
his country, and held in his heart her sufferings and
her hopes. He was indeed a guardian angel of the
national spirit, and a physician of hearts torn to pieces
by misfortune and sufferings, and he poured upon the
wounds of the Polish national body the balm of faith,
love, and hope.
Krasiński was born on the 19th of February, 1812,
of a rich and influential family. His father, Yincent,
was aide-de-camp to. Napoleon the Great, and after-
ward the general of the Polish army. Up to the thir-
teenth year of his life Sigismund's cultivation was
262 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
under the immediate supervision of his parents, and
under the guidance of the poet Joseph Korzeniowski,
and other distinguished teachers. In 1825 he entered
the Lyceum at Warsaw, where Linde, the lexicographer,
was the rector. Even at that early period of his life
he wrote a composition, "The Grave of Reichstall's
Family," from which it was inferred that he possessed
a natural inclination for dramatic imagery; then he
wrote " Ladislas Herman, "in imitaton of Walter Scott's
style. In this very fine romance he painted the Past
in a truly masterly manner. From the Lyceum he
went to the University; but on account of certain
unpleasant circumstances he thought it best to quit it.
He went then to Geneva, in Switzerland, where he
wrote his " Black Zawisza," but it was lost in its trans-
mission to Warsaw. It was there that he became per-
sonally acquainted with Mickiewicz and Odyniec, two
Polish poets, and in their company visited the moun-
tains of Switzerland. In 1830 he again met Adam
Mickiewicz at Rome. In 1832 he was compelled to
answer personally a call at Warsaw, although his state
of health could hardly permit of so long a journey.
From Warsaw he was sent to St. Petersburg, where he
was kept all winter, although very ill. He was suffer-
ing so badly from a disease of the eyes that they at
last permitted him to go to Graifenberg, from whence,
after getting quite well, he went to Vienna. Here he
wrote " Agaj-Han," and had it published at Breslau.
He left Vienna in 1836 and went to Italy and Rome;
here he became acquainted with Julius Słowacki, and
wrote "Irydion." In 1838 he went to Warsaw, but on
account of illness was again obliged to return to Italy.
In 1843 he was married to Countess Elizabeth Branicka
at Dresden, whence they visited the places of their
KRASIŃSKI. 263
birth, and then again went to Warsaw. In 1845 he
went to Xice, where he wrote one of the most beautiful
poems, '* The Psalms," in consequence of which a con-
troversy ensued between himself and the poet S'owacki.
In 1847 he once more visited Rome, and there again
met Mickiewicz. In the following year he resided at
Heidelberg, Paris, and Baden, when he again was
called to Warsaw in 1849; but the eye disease coming
upon him with greater severity than ever, he once
more, with the permission of the Government, returned
to Heidelberg, and then to Baden. Toward the last of
that year he was very assiduously occupied with the
antiquities dug out by the Appian Way, and the follow-
ing year he spent some time on the picturesque banks
of the river Rhine, from whence for the third time he
was ordered by the Government to return to Warsaw.
When his health began to fail and the eye disease
grew worse, he went once more to Heidelberg, and on
the death of Czar Nicholas, having received a permis-
sion to reside in foreign countries, he stopped at Baden,
and in 1856 at Kissingen. Later he journeyed to
Paris, and from there visited his father at Potok; but
soon after he went to Plombieres and Ems to try the
water-cure. In the same year he returned to Paris;
there he learned of the death of his father, which had
so great an effect upon him that he fell hopelessly ill,
and died on the 14th of February, 1859.
Krasinski's works were published at Warsaw, Paris,
Breslau, Leszno, Leipsic, and Posen.
264 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
PRAY FOR ME.
Pray for me — when I mourn in sore depression
Sins of my fathers, and my own transgression;
Pray for me that when death at last shall doom me,
Regrets for thee arise not to consume me.
Pray for me — that when with my God in Heaven,
After long ages passed, it shall be given
My weary soul to rest with thee forever,
For here much sorrow mars its high endeavor.
Pray for me — vain my life if, worst of changes,
Thy heart grown cold from mine itself estranges;
Oh, pray for me, for I through years have treasured
Thy name with love unfathomed and unmeasured.
Pray for me — for my life is dry and scentless,
My heart is faithful though my fate relentless;
Pray for me — let thy words breathe healing thro' me,
Though thou canst only be a sister to me.
Pray for me — other prayers are unavailing,
Thine only calm my heart in its bewailing;
All other prayers save thine the pang would double;
Pray for me — for I cling to thee in trouble.
On earth without thee I am lost and lonely;
My thoughts are thine, I dream upon thee only;
Dream that in far eternities now hidden,
My soul with thine shall mingle unforbidden.
EVER AND EVERYWHERE.
Say not of me when I am in my grave,
I only wounded where I should forbear;
'Twas that I drank from sorrow's bitter wave,
Ever and everywhere.
KRASIŃSKI. 265
Say not of me calm-voiced when I am gone
That I have marred your life that else was fair;
I walked with sunshine from my own withdrawn,
Ever and everywhere.
Say not of me as colder hearts would sa}'
When I am dead, that life had proved a snare
Because misfortune followed on my way,
Ever and everywhere.
When I am gone, then kindly speak of me,
Say that my heart was frenzied by despair;
I loved thee from my soul, if bitterly,
Ever and everywhere.
TO A LADY.
Hearts you may lure to you with ardent glances,
Or crush beneath unsympathetic swa}^;
Yet will you fall below the fair ideal
Of womanhood, for which we wait and pray.
Eyes downward cast, and cheek whose roseate glowing
Tells not of knowledge, are to-day as nought ;
Attain to womanhood through slow ascension,
Through scenes of sorrow rise to heights of thought.
And when through tears and pains of aspiration
A ray of Deity outflowing warm
Shall touch your soul with its living splendor,
And buds that blossom in the day of storm
Unfold to crown your pale and thoughtful forehead,
Then will your beauty take ideal form.
266 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
ONCE I ASKED THE DAY.
(Never before included in Krasinski's Collections.)
Once I asked the day why it was so bright,
I asked the thought why it soared so free,
And the heart why the world should so narrow be,
And the stars why they shone with such lustrous light.
I am son of the sun, replied Day, so am bright;
Being children of spirit, Thought answered, we soar;
The world is narrow, said Heart, since perverse evermore;
We shine, the Stars answered, as the great King of light.
I asked a gentle maiden's beaming eyes
Whence came such marvelous outlines of her face,
And whence to her soul such beauty and such grace,
Whence the rays of light and fires of feeling rise.
No word she spoke — her beauteous face alone
With the expression of her sweet spirit shone,
Her eyes' light touched her face with crimson rays,
And played in her feelings; pure spring displays
The sunlight in depths of the clear summer rill,
We can only solve feelings with feelings still,
And the works of God with the Heaven-sent mind;
But if 'tis not understood by humankind,
Oh, do not their dull comprehension resent.
The world should never chill your feeling from Heaven sent;
Let not earthiness a shade on thy soul's glory cast.
And when my sad star has removed me far from thee,
Remember it to thee could never permitted be.
By mem'ry of the dear hours we have together passed,
And by the memory of all feeling most divine,
Of all my inspirations holiest and most bright.
To cast aside the rays of radiant, sacred light,
Which even in the lowliest grave will o'er me shine
As it shone in the glad morning of my life's fair day,
On the threshold of eternity 'twill shed its ray;
KRASIŃSKI. 267
And though on the earth it parts us with stern behest,
'Twill surely in God once more unite us, ever blessed!
RESURECTURIS.
The world's a graveyard, kneaded with tears and gore,
Where none his Golgotha avoids. Evermore —
Vain is the spirit's strife
When sorrow's shaft descends;
Against the storms of life
No refuge here defends.
Abysses dark ingulf the brave,
At every step fate mocks at us,
The pure, the loved, sink in the grave,
The hated live, — 'tis ever thus.
All is tangling in a maze which naught divines,
And death is near and far away:
O'er waves of future ages shines
Resurrection's Day.
Heartless and insensible, then, must we be,
Murder with murderers setting passion free,
'Mid the vile grow viler, and though conscience yearn,
Make it's soft voice be still,
Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill,
And evil for evil to this world return.
In this alone must all our power consist; —
Let us eat and drink, and sate the body well,
Chasing from the brain each noble thought, and swell
Of fortunate and fools the length'ning list.
Oh ! no, that must not be.
Oh! pause, my soul, for we
Can never in that way
At humanity's head
Stand. No force can hold at bay
But sacrifice the dread
268 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And unrelenting fate
That crushes us to naught.
That is the lion great
Of history ; — all pride
And servility are;
But idle straws that caught
By passing breath may glide
To nothingness afar.
Oh! learn thyself to know;
Seek not omnipotent,
Like Him in heaven, to grow,
And to bend thee like a brute, ne'er give consent,
Knowing no good save some fat pasture-land on
This side the tomb; e'er breaks the radiant dawn
Of Resurrection. Oh! be thou constant still,
Though worlds should crash unmoved with dauntless will.
Be tireless. Patience, which 'mid every ill
Slowly rears from naught the edifice complete,
And which e'er prepares, unshaken by defeat,
The future, certain, and final victory.
Oh ! amid the storm be thou tranquillity,
Order in chaos, in discord harmony;
Amid this life's combat, that no respite hath,
Be thou the eternal Beauty, calm and bright.
For cowards and for Pharisees be wrath,
And menace or silent contempt, pure as light,
Angelic inspiration for all men be.
The rich nourishment that nourishes the heart,
A sister's tear when suffering thou dost see,
A manly voice when courage, long tried, forsakes,
Home, birthplace, wandering exiles find in thee.
Be hope for the despairing, — thunder that wakes
The drowsy souls lulled in corpse-like repose.
KEASIŃSKI. 269
Be thou the force, always and everywhere,
That reconciles, — force of self, — devotion rare,
Stronger than death, and in the strife that no end knows, —
Against the mad world's abyss of hate, Oh! be
Abyss of love, pure and free.
Ne'er cease to give
Thyself unto thy brethren in form sublime
Of teaching and example; in acts that live
Still multiply thyself; thus for all time
Thousands of men shall be outweighed by thee.
Even in irons performing acts that bless,
Learn to bear pain and bitterest agony;
Thy whole nation living in thy breast shall be, —
Be the miracle joins heaven to earth, — naught less, — '
In slavery, — holiness.
Seek not death till, like the buried seed that starts,
Thy grand thoughts be sown and germing in the hearts
Of thy compatriots, — till martyrdom alone
A pledge of certain victory shall be known.
Strive not with others' goodness, but thine own,
Shun martyrdom's renown,
And false vain-glory's crown
Leave to fools; for in this,
Danger's dreadful abyss,
Plunge only heroes brave.
Loftiest souls ne'er gave
Heed to siren's voice of bliss.
When the tocsin of events at last shall swell, —
Signal for thy final holocaust, — a knell
Both sad and wild, from thy native land, then
Kneel down on eternity's threshold; — When,
So deep within thy humble and contrite soul,
Thou hear'st the voice that only comes from God above,
Rise, like a strong athlete who wins the goal.
270 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Shake off thy feet earth's dust. With infinite love
• Stretch forth thy arms to Heaven, which still will bless.
Without complaint, wail, inward bitterness,
Bravely to meet thy executioners advance,
Saluting them with inmost pitying glance
Of high immortality, which glorifies.
Thus for the future thy sacrifice shall be"
The most fruitful witness. From thy death shall rise
The germ of life, for all men glorious, free.
The hopes the world deems idle dreams,
Oh! make them real, —
In justice, faith, —
To see and feel;
Which, like a probe that deeply darts,
Sink in men's hearts,
And dwell forever there.
Be its touch light as air,
A breath, a sigh's soft thrill.
The world, thy murderer, will
Kneel to thee in remorse,
Confessing brutal force;
Is impotent to strike
Country and God alike
From the conscience and care
Of nations everywhere.
When the blood which thy wounds shall spill
Sanctifies thy thought, that thought will
Draw the light of God's judgment strong
On the impious throng.
Troops and bayonets are vain,
Kings, lies, corruption, — aught;
No people shall attain
Power against that thought.
KRASIŃSKI. 271
When the third day shall dawn
O'er thy agony, on
Thy martyrdom's white tomb, —
At last the boon shall bloom
For nations, — undefiled-
Justice, — God's own fair child.
SŁOWACKTS MONUMENT IN PARIS (FRANCE).
SŁOWAUKŁ 273
SŁOWACKI.
Julius SIowacki tried liis strength at all kinds of
poetry. There are beautiful lyrics of his; others again
are epics, and also dramas. In each and every one of
these his creative mind shines with a resplendent lus-
ter. Everywhere he is new, fresh, and poetic; always
exhibiting extraordinary strength, always soaring high.
For a long time Słowacki was not understood, al-
though he was a poet belonging to all humanity; but
some of his poems were not understood, and others did
not come into general use. Almost thirty years had
elapsed before the people could look into them and
fully comprehend them. But as everything of the
highest order will ultimately find its vindication with
the people, so it was with Slowacki's writings; they at
last found their deserved acknowledgment and justifi-
cation.
Of all the poets from Krasicki to Krasiński, no one
possessed greater power of fantasy than Słowacki.
This was shown in a volume of poems written at the
time of the Polish Revolution (1831), and since its fall.
Another poem, "Zmija" (the Yiper), is also a fan-
tastic production. But there is much higher and truer
poetic merit in his "John Bielecki." The subject is
taken from the Polish Chronicles, partly oral, of a cer-
tain occurrence having taken place in eastern Galicia.
Here the portraitures of the Polish nobility are strik-
ing, and scattered throughout the poem very happily,
showing the greatest force, and with it the character-
istics of his own individuality as a man of uncommon
genius. " The father of the stricken with the plague,"
18
274 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
in El-Arish, contains in it a power likening to the suf-
fering of the Laocoon not carved in wood nor chiseled
in marble, but in the painting of poetic genius.
Among all the creations of Słowacki, nor in the whole
Polish literature, is there anything that could equal it
in finish, conciseness, power and truth, and finally the
incomparable mastery in the diversification of the par-
ticulars of this awe-inspiring poem. What the statue
of Laocoon or the groups of Mobe is in sculpture,
"The father of the plague-stricken" is in Słowacki's
poetry. If it concerned the vivid representation of
accumulated strokes of misfortune heaping thunder-,
bolts upon the head of a doomed human being, weep-
ing till its tears are dry, and moaning under the weight
of misery until the last vestige of human feeling is
gone; when it becomes a lifeless statue, unable to
weep or feel more — to reflect over its unutterable mis-
ery— then surely Slowacki's design is fully accom-
plished.
Then comes "Hugo," tales of the Crusades, fol-
lowed by "Balladyna," and "Lilla Weneda." The
first one a beautiful epopee, not exactly in the Ho-
meric style, but somewhat in the manner of Ariosto;
prehistoric account of Poland is the subject. "In
Switzerland " is a charming idyllic intermixed with
tragic incidents, so abstruse and yet so truthful that it
is not possible to find any such love-dream in any for-
eign tongue. Truth a*nd fiction, reality and poetry,
man's love and genius of the artist, all here strike
hands to produce a poetic creation, and one knows not
which to admire the most. In "Wacław" is a full
confession of beautiful motives, such as are seldom to
be found. This poem is equal to any of Lord Byron's
in the masterly carving out of each particular. "The
SŁOWACKI. 275
Arab" and "The Monk" are also wrought in an ar-
tistic manner. "The Silver Dream of Salomeą"
seems to be only a dramatized tale concerning two dif-
ferent pairs of married people, who, in order to accom-
plish the desired end of being united in marriage,
have to wade through a sea of misfortunes and fears
caused by national troubles, which so ruthlessly passed
over their devoted heads. It is for that reason that
the poet called it "The Romantic Drama." The
tragedy " Mindowe " is one of the latest of the poet's
productions. In this tragedy the incidents relate to
the times when Lithuania had not yet the light of
Christianity. In represents the renegacy and the re-
turn to the faith of his sires of Prince Menclog. The
tragedy "Mazeppa" is full of tragic incidents, and of
vivid and passionate poetry; where the most delicate
shades of human nature are wrought up to perfection.
The background of " Kordyan " is the age, which,
from the very beginning, the poet reproaches and chas-
tises for its dwarfishness, condemned to pass away as
unworthy of mention. The poet here creates a charac-
ter which is too exalted, and outgrew the littleness of
the spirit of the present generation. He feels keenly
the misery of this life, and desires to fill it with some-
thing more noble, and hence throws himself about,
here and there, to attain the desired object. Sło-
wacki's "Kordyan" unites almost all the character-
istics of greatness and the contempt of life — ready for
all sacrifices, desire for fame, bravery and noble pride.
In the historical drama "Maria Stuart" the frame
of the picture is tolerably narrow. It was not the in-
tention of Słowacki, as it was of Schiller, in the trag-
edy of the same name, to draw within the confines, of
it the whole history of the given epoch, but for all
276 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
that there are in it splendid passages that enchant the
reader. The verse is flowery and masterly, and his
language sparkles with diamonds of the first water.
The epopee " Sambro " proves Stowacki's great power
of fancy and a great gift of poetical invention. The
subject is taken from Greek history, that is to say from
the last part of it of last century. He tries to repre-
sent a hero endowed with every necessary condition,
and to excite for him the wonder and admiration of
the reader, whereas it is discovered that from under
these artificial coverings appears a man full of moral
corruption — the more unpleasant to the eye since it is
plainly seen that he comes out with gigantic preten-
sions which nothing can justify.
It being impossible for our poet to travel all the
time in the realms of poetic fantasy of the past, and
hearing the subterranean moanings and weeping of the
people, he created, with a power at once charming and
genial, "Anhellim," where the infernal regions of Siberia
take a shape of strange illusion which makes it beau-
tiful and fearful, dismal and at the same time enticing.
In this production the poet gives a portraiture of
the fate of the whole people, and a review of their
relations which we suffer for the guilt of others, as
also of transgression of which we ourselves are guilty.
It was the poet's fancy to call a Siberia the whole of
our social condition. The doctrine advanced in
" Anhellim " is turbid and fantastic, — it loses itself in
the unfathomable depth of mysticism, and is written in
biblical style. In 'c Bieniowski " one is reminded from
its construction of Byron's " Don Juan," but in spirit
it resembles the creations of Ariosto. The poem
uncovers to the reader the bloody wars toward the end
of the last century, in which Poland has manifested
SŁOWACKI. 277
her patriotism, which are shown by various drifts in
the poem. Here, in imitation of an English bard,
Słowacki marks strongly his own individuality. Be-
sides the strophes marked by deep moral feeling,
colored mostly by the poet's fancy, we find others in
which is seen a most extraordinary power of language
in form, and unlimited bitterness of feeling. This
powerful poem by turns causes tears to flow, aston-
ishes, cheers up the public, and moves their passions.
Being deeply engaged in the investigation of questions
beyond the comprehension of human understanding,
brought about by Towiaaski (a votary of whose doc-
trines Słowacki became), it engrossed his mind to such
a degree that in his last composition their influence is
obvious. It is plainly seen in his " Priest-Mark," a
drama in which the character and stamping of the
Jewess Judith answers exactly the conception of Tow-
ianski's sect as regards the mission of the Jewish
people. From the plot and characters introduced it is
evident that the poet was intent upon the conquering of
the evils of the world, and the erecting upon their ruins
of a great epoch of the future for the people and for
humanity itself.
"The Spirit King" was the first great national epopee
in song wherein the author puts aside the veil and pre-
sents to view his grand philosophical thoughts in regard
to his country; and in order to legitimize it the author
gives us to understand that he thoroughly comprehends
the long sufferings of his nation; and we further infer
that the poet knew the way to solve the problem of the
nation's future destiny. The author makes this pro-
duction an offering upon the altar of art for humanity,
but not for the real interest of a perishable generation.
" The Spirit King " displaces but does not divide the
278 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
vital parts of his country. His plan comprehends the
eternal future, history corroborates it; the present bears
witness to it, and the future will demonstrate its truth.
All of Slowacki's works possess a powerful feeling,
exalted thoughts, and stormy passions. Oftentimes he
pours out to the world the bitterness of his heart; but
above all his fancy is so active that his mind and feel-
ing can hardly keep pace with it.
It is not tobe wondered at, then, that he reaches with
so much tenderness the hearts of the Polish youth. He
was their songster and their spiritual leader. The spirit
of youth, like the gentle breezes of spring, breathes
from every one of his songs. The age of dreams, the
inward emotions of the soul, and sudden but noble
impulses, permeate each of his creations.
Słowacki was born in 1809 at Krzemieniec, where
his father, Euzebius, was a professor of the Polish
language. He received the rudiments of education at
Wilno, and after finishing the course there, in 1824
entered the University. In 1826 he went to Odessa,
and after completing his academic studies he entered in
1828 as assistant in the treasury department in War-
saw. Here he wrote " The Mother of God, "and the
tragedy "Mindowe." Owing to the revolution of
1831, and adhering to the moderate party, he left for
Dresden, from whence he was made a member of the
diplomatic mission going to Paris. Then he went to
London, and after the taking of Warsaw, being for-
bidden to return to Poland, he went again to Paris and
lived in seclusion, but ardently engaged in the cause of
Polish emigration. In 1832 he left for G-eneva, where
he took up his abode on the shores of Lake Geneva,
and wrote the poem " Lambro," "The Hour of
Thought," " Duma Wacław Kzewuski," and " Paris."
SŁOWACKI. 279
He then went to Greece, the East, and Italy. At
Rome he met Sigismimd Krasiński, returned to Greece
again, and in 1856 went to Egypt. From Cairo, on a
camel, he travels to Gaza, through the desert, and
reaches Jerusalem, and from there he visits Palestine,
Mount Lebanon, Damascus, and the ruins of Balbek.
At Beyrout he wrote the celebrated poem w' The Father
of the Plague-Stricken," founded upon facts of sad
adventure, in which he, with his associates, took a
prominent part during two weeks' quarantine at
El-Arish. At Beyrout he went in a sail- vessel in 1837
to Livorno. In the following year he resided at
Florence, where he published his 4t Anhelli." In 1839
he returned to Paris, where he resided till his death;
and though amidst many members of the Polish
emigration, he lived most of the time in seclusion. He
looked with somewhat envious eye upon Mickiewicz's
reputation, between whom and himself there was ap-
parent coolness, — Mickiewicz in his lectures on Litera-
ture having his name mentioned but once, and that,
too, rather indifferently. This year he published his
"Balladyna," and in the following year "Lillia
Weneda " and " Mazeppa " were also brought out.
Under the influence of a morbid feeling he published
" Bieniowski," in 1841, where he bitterly complains of
the indifference of some people, — Mickiewicz and the
critics receiving their share. In the same year he
joined Towianski's sect, and a happy reconciliation
took place between himself and Mickiewicz; but shortly
after the proud and independent feeling of Słowacki
caused him to leave the Towiański Union, and the poet
himself became the head of a separate sect, small in
number, but surpassing even Towiański in mysticism.
Under the deep impression of the doctrines of this sect
280 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
he wrote u Priest-Mark, " and also the drama "The
Silver Dream of Salomeą."
The occurrences of 1848 reanimated him once more;
so much so that he left Paris for Posen, but did not
remain long. While returning through Breslau to
Paris, after the wandering of years, he saw and pressed
to his heart his beloved mother. Returning to Paris
he fell into a dangerous illness and never recovered
from it. Seeing that he was about to end his earthly
career he united himself with God, and expired the
3d of April, 1849.
His poems were published at different times and dif-
ferent places, but the most complete edition of his
works, in four volumes, was published in a library of the
Polish writers in 1861. In 1866-7 Professor Małecki
published at Lemberg, with an addition of a biographical
studium, several literary productions of Słowacki hith-
erto unknown. The following are the titles: "Wal-
lace," a tragedy; "Krakus," and "Beatrice di Cenci ";
"Wallenrod," a drama; "The Black Zawisza," a
drama; "John Casimir," a drama; "The Incorrigi-
bles," whilom entitled the "New Dezanira," a drama;
" The Golden Cup," a drama; "The Poet and the In-
spiration," a fragment liry co-dramatic; " Samuel Zbor-
owski," a fantastic poem; " Journey to the East," con-
tinuation of " Bieniowski"; "Conversations with
Mother Makryna," a poem; and " The Genesis of the
Spirit," a prayer in prose.
I AM SO SAD, 0 GOD!
I am so sad, 0 God ! Thou hast before me
Spread a bright rainbow in the western skies,
But hast quenched in darkness cold and stormy
The brighter stars that rise;
SŁOWACKI. 281
Clear grows the heaven 'neath thy transforming rod,
Still I am sad, O God!
Like empty ears of grain with heads erected
Have I delighted stood amid the crowd,
My face the while to stranger eyes reflected
The calm of summer's cloud;
But Thou dost know the ways that I have trod,
And why I grieve, O God!
I am like to a weary infant fretting
Whene'er its mother leaves it for a while,
And grieving watch the sun, whose light in setting
Throws back a parting smile;
Though it will bathe anew the morning sod,
Still lam sad, O God!
To-day o'er the wide waste of ocean sweeping
Hundreds of miles away from shore or rock,
I saw the cranes fly on, together keeping
In one unbroken flock;
Their feet with soil from Poland's hills were shod,
And I was sad, O God !
Often by strangers' tombs I've lingered weary,
Since grown a stranger to my native ways,
I walk a pilgrim through a desert dreary,
Lit but by lightning's blaze,
Knowing not where shall fall the burial clod
Upon my bier, O God!
Sometime hereafter will my bones lie whitened,
Somewhere on strangers' soil, I know not where;
I envy those whose dying hours are lightened,
Fanned by their native air; m
But flowers of some strange land will spring and nod
Above my grave, O God!
282 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
When but a guileless child at home they bade me
To pray each day for home restored, I found
My bark was steering — how the thought dismayed me-
The whole wide world around!
Those prayers unanswered, wearily I plod
Through rugged ways, O God!
Upon the rainbow, whose resplendent rafter
Thy angels rear above us in the sky,
Others will look a hundred years hereafter,
And pass away as I;
Exiled and hopeless 'neath thy chastening rod,
And sad as I, O God!
EXTRACTS FROM SŁOWACKFS TRAGEDY OF MIN-
DOWE,* OR LEGATE'S REVENGE.
Mindowe, King of Litwania, having embraced the Christian
religion, his mother, who is blind, together with his
nephew Troinace, conspire to effect his death. Mindowe
has banished Ławski, the Prince of Nalzhaski, and es-
sayed to win the affections of his wife. Ławski, not being
heard of for some time, is supposed to be dead. The scene
opens just after the baptismal rites of the monarch.
ACTI.
Scene II. — The royal presence-chamber..
Enter Casimir and Basil, from different sides.
Basil. Saw you the rites to-day, my Casimir?
Casimir. I saw what may I never see again,
The altars of our ancient faith torn down,
Our king a base apostate, groveling
" Beneath a —
* Pronounce Mindoveh.
SŁOWACKI. 283
Basil {interrupting him). Hold! knowest thou not
The ancient saw that " palace walls have ears! "
The priests throng round us like intruding flies,
And latitude of speech is fatal.
Casimir. True —
I should speak cautiously — But hast seen
The Prince?
Basil. Who? Troinace?
Casimir. The same.
Ha! here he comes, and with the queen-mother —
It is not safe to parley in their presence. Hence
Along with me, I've secrets for thine ear.
[Exit Casimir and Basil.
Ronelva enters, leaning upon the arm of Troinace, and
engaged with him in conversation.
Troinace. Thou hast a son, Ronelva, crowned a king !
Ronelva. Is he alive? with sight my memory fails.
Once I beheld the world, but now 'tis dark —
My soul is locked in sleep — O God! O God!
My son! hast seen my royal son? The king,
Thy uncle, Troinace? How is he arrayed?
Troinace. In regal robes, and with a jeweled cross
Sparkling upon his breast.
Ronelva. A cross ! — what cross ?
'Tis not a symbol of his sovereignty —
Troinace. It is a gift made by his new ally,
The Pope.
Ronelva. The Pope! — The Pope! I know none such!
Who is this Pope ! — Is't he who sends new gods
To old Litwania? Yes — I've heard of him — (A pause)
Enter Mindowe, crowned, and arrayed in purple, with a dia-
mond cross upon his breast, and accompanied by Heidenric,
the Pope's Legate. Herman precedes them bearing a golden
cross. Ławski, disguised as a Teutonic knight, with a rose
upon his helmet and his visor down, bearing a casket.
Lutuver attending the king. Ławski stands apart.
284 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Ronelva. I feel that kindred blood is near, Mindowe!
Thy mother speaks ! approach ! [He approaches.
Hast thou returned
From some new expedition? Is thy brow
Covered with laurels, and thy stores
Replete with plunder? Do I hear the shouts,
Th1 applause of the Litwanians, hailing thee
As conqueror. Returnest thou from Zmudzie,
From Dwina's shores triumphant? Has the Russian Bear
Trembled before thy sword? Does Halicz fear
Thy angry frown? Speak! with a mother's tears
I'll hail thee conqueror.
Mindowe. My mother! why
These tones and words sarcastic? knowest thou not
That victory perches on another's helm?
I am at peace, and am — a Christian king.
Ronelva. Foul shame on thee, blasphemer T
Hast thou fallen
As low as this? Where is thy bold ambition!
To what base use hast placed thy ancient fame?
Is't cast aside like to some foolish toy
No longer worth the hoarding? Shame upon
Thy craven spirit! Canst thou live without
That glorious food, which e'en a peasant craves,
Holding it worthless as thy mother's love.
And thy brave father's faith?
Mindowe. Nay, mother, nay!
Dismiss these foolish fancies from thy brain.
Behold! my jeweled brow is bent before thee.
Oh, bless thy son!
Ronelva. Thou vile apostate! Thou
Dare ask for approbation? Thou! — I curse thee!
Sorrow and hate pursue thy faltering steps.
Still may thy foes prove victors; subjects false;
Thy drink be venom, and thy joy be woe.
Thy mind filled with remorse, still mayst thou live.
SŁOWACKI. 285
Seeking for death, but wooing it in vain;
A foul, detested, blasted renegade —
I have bestowed to earth a viper, but
From thee shall vipers spring, who like their sire
Shall traitors be unto their native land,
And eager plunge them into ruin's stream!
Depart! and bear thy mother's curse!
Mindowe. Mother,
My mother —
Ronelva. Call me not mother, viper!
I do disclaim thee: — thee, — and all thy seed!
[Exit Ronelva, leaning on Troinace.
Mindowe {speaking as though awe-stricken)*.
Heard ye that curse?
Heidenric. What are the frantic words
Of a revengeful woman? Empty air —
Mindowe. A mother's curse ! It carries pestilence,
Blight, misery and sorrow in its train.
No matter ! It is, as the Legate says,
But " empty air." (To Heidenric.) What message do you bear?
Heidenric. Thus to the great Litwanian king, Pope Innocent
(Fourth of the name who've worn the papal crown)
Sends greeting: Thou whose power extends
From fartherest Baltic to the shores of Crim,
Go on, and prosper. Though unto thy creed
He thinks thy heart is true, still would he prove —
(Mindowe starts, and exclaims " Ha!")
Send thou to him as neighboring monarchs do
An annual tribute. So he'll bless thy arms
That ere another year elapses Russ' shall yield,
And Halicz fall before thy conquering sword.
Mindowe. Thanks to the Pope. I'll profit by his leave;
I'll throw my troops in Muscovy, and scourge
The hordes of Halicz, move in every place
Like an avenging brand, and say: The Pope
Hath giv'n me power. But, hark ye ! Legate,
286 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
What needs so great a priest as he of Rome
With my red gold to buy him corn and oil?
Explain ! I do not understand the riddle.
Heidenric. He merely asks it as a pledge of friendship,
But nothing more. The proudest kings of Europe
Yield him such tribute.
Mindowe. Tribute! base priest!
Whene'er thy master asks for tribute, this —
{Striking his sword.)
Is my reply. What hast thou there?
Heidenric. A gift —
A precious relic of most potent virtue.
Thou'st heard of St. Sebastian? holy man!
He died a martyr. This which brought him death
Is sent unto thee by his holiness —
{Presents a rusty spear-head.)
Mindowe. Fie on such relics ! I could give thy Pope
A thousand such! This dagger by my side
Has hung from childhood. It has drank the blood
Of many a foe that vexed my wrath ; and oft
Among them there were men, and holy men,
As holy, sir, as e'er was St. Sebastian.
Heidenric. Peace, thou blasphemer!
Mindowe {angrily). How! dost wish thy head
To stand in safety on thy shoulders?
What means this insolence, sir Legate?
Think'st thou that I shall kneel, and bow, and fawn,
And put thy master's iron yoke upon me?
They act not freely whom the fetters bind,
And none shall forge such galling chains for me!
There's not one more Mindowe in the world,
Nor is your Pope a crowned Litwanian king.
Heidenric. I speak but as the representative
Of power, supreme o'er earthly monarchs
Mindowe. Thou doest well to shelter thus thyself
Under the shield of thy legation. Hast
SŁOWACKI. 287
Aught more to utter of thy master's words,
Aught more to give?
Heidenric. I have a gift to make
Unto thy queen.
Mindoive. The queen hath lain, sir prince,
In cold corruption for a twelvemonth back.
What means this mockery?
Heidenric. Pardon, my lord!
It was not known unto his holiness.
The forests of Litwania are so dark
They shut her doings from her neighbor's ken.
If then the queen be dead who shall receive
This goodly gift?
Mindoive. My mother —
Heidenric. If I may judge
By what I heard e'en now, she'd not accept
Our offering. ;
Mindowe. Then give the gorgeous gaw
To Lawski's widow — she who soon will be
My crowned queen. Summon her hither, page.
[Exit Page.
Attendants, take from hence these costly gifts,
And give them in the royal treasurer's care —
[Exit Attendants, as Aldona enters.
Here comes my spotless pearl, the fair Aldona,
The choicest flower of the Litwanian vales.
Address thy speech to her.
Heidenric. Beauteous maid,
Accept these golden flowers from Tiber's banks,
Where they have grown, nursed by the beams of faith.
Nor deem less in value that they are
By the bright luster of thine eyes eclipsed.
Aldona. These costly jewels and the glare of gold,
Albeit they suit not my mourning weeds
May serve as dying ornaments. As such
I will accept them.
288 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Heidenric (aside). Ay! I warrant me.
Like to most women she accepts the gift.
No farther questions. Gold is always — gold.
(Motions to Ławski to approach Aldona. He does so, trem-
blingly.)
Mindowe (to Ławski). Thou tremblest, Teuton !
(Ławski raises his visor as he approaches Aldona. She recog-
nizes his features, shrieks, and falls. Exit Ławski.)
Mindowe. Help here, she swoons.
Without there.
(Enter Attendants.)
Bear her hence. Pursue that knight.
[Exit Attendants with Aldona.
(To Heidenric.) What means this mystery?
Heidenric. I know not, sire.
He said that he had vowed whilst in our train
For certain time to keep his visor down.
He's taciturn. This with his saddened air,
Together with the rose upon his helm,
The emblem of the factious house of York,
Bespeak him English. To my thought, at least.
Mindowe. Think ye such poor devices can deceive?
He is a spy — a base, deceitful spy.
Begone! for by my father's sepulcher
I see a dagger in my path. Begone !
[Exit Heidenric and Herman.
Approach Lutuver. Didst thou see that knight
Who left so suddenly?
Lutuver. I did so, sire,
But 'f all the group I least suspected him
Of treasonable practices. He's silent,
For no one understands his language here;
He keeps aloof from men, because he's sad;
He's sad, because he's poor; so ends that knight.
Mindowe (not heeding him).
I tell thee that my very soul's pulse throbbed,
SŁOWACKI. 289
And my heart cast with quicker flow my blood,
When that young knight approached Aldona. (Muses.)
Now, by the gods, I do believe 'tis he —
The banished Ławski, here to dog my steps —
What thinkst thou, Lutuver?
Lutuver. Slay him, sire!
If it be he, he's taken from thy path,
If not — to slay a Teuton is no crime.
Mindowe. Thou counselest zealously. But still, thy words
Fall not upon an ear which thinks them good.
I tell thee that this Ławski is my bane,
A living poison rankling 'fore mine eyes.
Men prate about the virtues of the man.
And if a timorous leaning to the right
From fear to follow where the wrong directs
Be virtue, then is he a paragon.
No wonder we are deadly foes. To me
The brightness which is shed o'er all his deeds
When placed in contact with my smothered hate
Seems as the splendor of the noonday sun
Glancing upon some idol's horrid form,
Making its rude appearance ruder still.
One word of mine, Lutuver, might destroy
This abject snail, who crawling near my hope
Hath scared it off. But I would have him live,
And when he meets his adorable wife,
When in th' excess of 'raptured happiness
Each fiber fills with plenitude of joy
And naught of bliss is left to hope for — then
At fair Aldona's feet shall he expire,
And the full heart just beating 'gainst her own
Shall yield its living current for revenge.
And she — his wife — to whom I knelt in vain,
Who oft has said she courted my dislike,
And wished I'd hate her: — she shall have her wish.
[Exeunt Mindowe and Lutuver, as the curtain falls.
19
290 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
GARCZYNSKI.
Stephen Garczynski, the imitator and a great per-
sonal friend of Adam Mickiewicz, was gifted with
marked poetical abilities, but a long residence in for-
eign countries had a great influence over them. His
poetry when not considered from a national, artistic
standpoint, possesses unusual merits. His fantasy
being full of feeling, and his imagery of the richest
spirit, are the two greatest characteristics of his poet-
ical creations; but their German mysticism and other
outlines, tinged with foreign literature, are their weak
points. Mickiewicz, in his lectures on Slavonic Liter-
ature, places Garczynski in the front ranks of Polish
poets; but it is doubtful whether he could maintain the
place now, because he died too young to compete for
so high a place on the Polish Parnassus; and yet, as a
poet, he stands high. His beautiful poem "Waclaw's
History " is an extensive philosophical creation, but
founded upon ideas of which he drank deeply while in
Germany. It is a description of an individual life in
many phases and changes of all sorts, all of which
seem to exert a great influence upon his moral condi-
tion; this constitutes about the whole theme of the
poem. Here Garczynski reminds one of Byron's
heroes. It is an unhappy young man for whom the
world has no longer any charms, — who amidst riches
and amusements, dying from grief, looks for relief and
diversion in learning. We see in him something akin
to "Faust" or "Manfred," but neither the unlimited
desire for knowledge nor passions consumes him. He
does not chase about the world as " Lara " or 4 ' Cor-
GARCZYŃSKI. 291
sair,"in search of prey, lust, or booty. He is unhappy
only because he is a Pole; he is unhappy because he
does not see any moral cause for the existence of his
country; because in philosophy only he could find the
apotheosis of the powers which destroyed his country.
Besides that, he wrote war sonnets and lyrics, most of
which are replete with a devoted love to his country.
Garczyński was born in 1806, in Great Poland, re-
ceived his first education at Trzemeszno, and at a
Lyceum at Warsaw; then he attended the University
at Berlin, where having imbibed the philosophical doc-
trines of Hegel he drowned in them the remnants of
the faith of his sires, which he carried away with him
on leaving the home of his youth. Traveling in Italy
in 1829 he met Mickiewicz, the poet, at Rome, and
here were formed between them ties of the closest and
most sincere friendship. Mickiewicz warmed up Gar-
czyński's faith, and awakened within him the great
inborn powers which up to this time were misdirected.
During the revolution of 1831 he took an active part
in national movements. He was aid-de-camp of Gen-
eral Umiński, fought in several battles, and received
a golden cross for bravery and meritorious conduct.
After the unfortunate result of the revolution he went
to Paris, France, and from there to Rome, where he
again met his beloved friend Adam Mickiewicz. In
his company he went to Geneva, Switzerland. His
health beginning to fail he sought relief at Avignon,
where he was taken by Mickiewicz in person. Here,
after a month's illness, he died — 1833, Mickiewicz
closing his eyes.
Garczynski's works were published in Paris by Mar-
tinet in 1860, in Posen by Mertzbach, and by Brock-
house in Leipsic; also in the " Library of the Polish
Authors "in 1860.
292 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
MILITARY SONNET.
With signal of attack each separate line
Like two black clouds ere bursts the thunder peal
Advance, — each moment closer yet they steal,
Thirsty for blood, the battle's crimson wine.
With manes outshaken at the second sign
The horses snort, glance proudly, — bold with ire,
Strike with their hoofs, — raise dust with sparks of fire,
As though the coming victory they divine.
March! march! the third sign giv'n; what billows rise !
The sea itself is not more tempest-tost
With horse and rider;— earth in smoke is lost.
A clash of arms ! friends mingle in the host
With foes. Who conquers? from the turmoil fled,
The vanquished leave the victors with the dead!
CONVERSATION.
Come here my girl ; and then she ran to me.
Do you love me? Oh yes, indeed I do.
As mother? — brother? far more fond and true;
To you a help I ever wish to be.
All that I have, or will have, fain would I
Divide with you and for you make all light.
Ah! when I hear the rustling trees at night,
And windows rattling as the breeze sweeps by,
'Tis dark, and I alone sad vigil keep;
I think you are not with me — then I weep.
'Tis very wrong, my child, — it is a sin.
Sin, did you say ? Ah ! that is never true,
For when at morn I do not mention you
In prayer, no heavenly joy do I win
At eve. I think of words you spoke to me,
And to myself give them a meaning strange.
GARCZYŃSKI. 293
I weep, but am so happy I would change
That moment — time into eternity,
And weep forever with a blissful sense
Of happiness most pure and most intense.
'Tis wrong, my child ; — your thoughts had better rest
On some one else — more fitting it would seem
God so ordains. Ah ! no ; whene'er I dream
Of Heaven, you are there among the blest.
Once said I to myself that it was wrong,
But sweet and clear as chime of silver bell
Kind voices spoke to me: — Love! love! 'Tis well.
Long as you have a heart — Oh love so long ;
And to my soul came joy unknown before,
And doubt can never cloud its sunshine more.
Then I was silent; — sank the sun and fell
Calm ev'ning dim with shades of coming night.
My heart was timid, but a new delight,
With some strange change about it, wove a spell
When I repeated " it is wrong," I prest
With fervent kiss the maiden's lip and hand;
The rapture, none save lovers understand,
Kindl'd a warmth divine within my breast,
For as our lips in that warm pressure met
A star rose in my sky that ne'er can set.
ZALESKI.
294
ZALESKI. 295
ZALESKI.
Joseph Bohdan Zaleski, at first the worshiper and
a scholar of Brodziński, and whom he also tried to
imitate, at least in the external construction of his
verse, became in the end an original poet in the true
sense of the word. Ukraine, the province of his na-
tivity, is almost the sole theme of his song. It is from
her heroic deeds that he takes all his subjects, and from
her natural wealth all the embellishments and charms
of his poetry. Naturalness, feeling, and grandeur of
imagery constitute the inborn music of his song. Za-
leski is one of the greatest lyric poets; he possesses an
unusual gift of poetic vision of every thought and
every feeling, which he skilfully shapes, tunes, and
transforms at his will. The unrest of the soul, touch-
ing meditations, and the clothing of his thoughts with
peculiarly deep mystery, are the chief characteristics
of his creations. Occasionally he rises above the
bounds of the natural world and soars in the ideal;
then again he descends into the inflate qualities of
nature, and surrounding himself with the light of
reality he seems to remain with himself only in
thoughtfulness and longing as if awakened from a
temporary illusion or a broken spell. His manner of
writing is solely his own, bearing the stamp of an
incomparable artist. Liveliness of imagery, sincerity
of feeling, and the outward form of expression, are
blended in him in delightful harmony, so that it is
difficult to determine whether he is a greater poet or a
greater musical artist.
Zaleski was born on the 14th of February, 1802, at
296 POETS AKD POETEY OF POLAND.
a place called Bohaterka, in Ukraine. His youth was
spent on the steppes (prairies) amidst the people of
that region. He attended school in the city of Humań
from 1815 to 1819. Humań is situated within but a
short distance from the most beautiful garden in Europe,
from which the poet Trembecki drew his inspiration
when he wrote his famous poem " Sofiowka." The
garden is so named, and one would not go much amiss
to infer that the resplendent beauties of the garden
might have first awakened Zaleski' s poetic genius. It
is not an unpleasant fact for the editor of this work to
here record that he, too, rubbed his back against the
walls of that famous institution, and remembers well
the severity of its rules. He knows not whether the
institution is still in existence, but at the time when he
was a student there the professors' chairs were filled
by the most learned and ablest men of the order of
Basilians.
In 1820 Zaleski went with Severyn Goszczyński to
Switzerland, and thence to the University of Warsaw.
Later he was a private teacher with a Mr. Górski and
the son of General Shembeck, until 1830. In that
year he left Poland and went to Paris, then to Italy.
Returning to Paris he filled the office of the Superin-
tendent of the Polish School at Batignolle, where we
believe he still resides.
His work "Poetry" was published by Edward
Iełowicki in 1841; "Dumy and Dumki," published by
Raczyński in Posen; "Poetry," at St. Petersburg in
1851. The Poet's Oratorium in "Dumy and Dumki "
was dedicated to his wife, — published at Posen, 1866.
No nation had a sweeter and more feeling poet than
Zaleski — not even excepting Petrarch.
ZALESKI, 297
THE POET'S SONO.
When Spring unfolds her foliage green,
And birds their songs begin to breathe,
My strain, like theirs, is free from care;
I fly above,— descend beneath!
I fly and haunt the vanished past,
'Mid tempests' low and wavering moan; —
I gaze upon the regions vast,
And listen to the whirlwind's tone!
I feel the world's bright aspect 'round,
From flowers sweet I take my life;
I list to angels' prfising sound,
And soon forget all earthly strife.
And if my heart at times complains,
In spite of all its earthly joys,
I try to soothe its bitter pains,
As children do with pleasing toys.
If for a while my bosom beats,
Arid trembles, filled with pain and fear,
My mind to Heaven then retreats,
And there dispels each bitter tear.
Thus then I pass away my time,
In joy my moments quickly glide;
Not fond of solving mysteries,
I smile at human thoughtless pride.
But when I end life's short career,
And bid this world a last adieu,
Another world again will cheer
The heart that seldom sorrow knew.
Although the body pass from hence,
The soul immortal shall not die;
A few remaining thoughts on earth
May tell I soared beyond the sky.
298 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
'TIS DIFFERENT WITH US.
"U nas inaczej."
'Tis sad, brethren, sad, beyond the Danube's tide,
Moist are our eyes, but our feelings we must hide;
Irksome is the world, the people weary me;
How strange 'mid bustling crowds look all things I see !
Here the Kozak's * spirit must pleasureless roam ;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
'Tis different with us! ah, the Polish land
Is our mighty queen — 'tis a Slavonic band ;
At a sign from her, brethren, death we will dare,
And ever we'll dream of Ukraine the fair.
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our loved home !
'Tis different with us! blithe and buoyant instead,
Away with mounds sepulchral whose shadows outspread ;
The eagle eye desires ev'ry thing to see,
Bathing in wild grasses contented and free !
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our loved home!
'Tis different with us! 'neath the dark blue skies
O'erhanging Ukraine plaintive songs arise
From many sweet singers wand'ring far and near;
O God, their sad strains ever deafen the ear!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our loved home!
*See annotations to Malczewski. We can only add here that
the word " Kozak" applies figuratively especially to those w7ho were
born in Ukraine ; hence when one says he comes from " Kozaczyzna,"
it means that he comes from the land of the " Kozaks," that is to say,
from " Ukraine." Here the poet, though a nobleman calls himself a
Kozak, being born and brought up in Ukraine.
ZALESKI. 299
U NAS INACZEJ.
(Bohdana Zaleskiego.)
Smutnoz tu — smutno, bracia, za Dunajem,
I w oczach mokro, bo sercami tajem;
Ludzie nas nudzą — i świat cały nudzi;
Cudzo — och pusto — śród świata i ludzi!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
U nas inaczej Och! Ojczyzna Lasza,
To wszech słowiańska i królowa nasza,
Bracia, zginiemy za nią., kiedy skinie,
Ale śnić będziem o swej Ukrainie.
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! I bujnie i miło,
Hej ! nie zastępuj na drodze mogiło !
Nie ściel się cieniem! niech sokole oko
Kąpie w burzanach lubo a szeroko!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Po nad Ukrainą,
Wskroś okolicą jarzącą się, siną,
Boże śpiewaki ciągną w w różne strony;
Az w uszach klaszcze, taki gwar zmącony!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
300 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
'Tis different with us ! what I've secretly planned,
Or in Duma sing, my horse can understand;
He neighs in his way; of his tabun* thinks he?
Ah, he and I are twins, both yearning to be free!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
'Tis different with us! sad notes e'er are sung,
Because 'tis sepulchral, and the graves among;
They breathe the spirit of our great sires and praise
Glories and victories of their olden days !
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home !
'Tis different with us ! far more glad and gay,
Lively beats the heart; pour out no wine I pray!
Intoxication seems the air itself to fill ;
When I wish to carouse I shall with a will!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
'Tis different with us! love and longing here
As two strands of the thread of this life appear.
With tears, O God, I entreat a boon of Thee,
That in Heaven Thou'll give Ukraine to me !
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
* A herd of wild horses.
ZALESKI. 301
U nas inaczej Co zaśpiewam w dumie,
Co w głowie knowam — brat koń mój rozumie ;
Rzy po swojemu: — czy tabun pamięta?
Och! za wolnością, tęsknimy bliźnięta!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Wciąż nuta żałoby,
Bo namogilna, bo pomiędzy groby
Ku duchom ojców przygrywa wspaniale
O ich minionych i bojach i chwale:
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Jakoś lżej weselej,
Krew gra burzliwiej : — oj wina mi nie lej !
Samem powietrzem po pianemu żyję;
A kiedy hulam — to na łeb, na szyję!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Miłość i tęsknota,
To jak dwie prządki naszego żywota.
Bozez mój, Boże! łzami modlę Ciebie!
Jak umrę, daj mi Ukrainę — w niebie!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej !
302 POETS AND POETRY OE POLAND.
TO MY GUITAR. .
Thou dear companion of my spring,
My soul confides its grief to thee ; —
Let the sad plainings of each string
Drown all my sighs melodiously.
And let thy murmurs, joined with mine,
A soothing as of dreams impart,
While from these walls at day's decline,
Their notes rebounding thrill my heart.
Sweetly intoxicate each sense,
Chase from my eyes this mist of pain; — ■
From earth's cold desert bear me hence,
My only solace! on thy strain.
Through all my sad and vanished years
Few happy hours to me were known ;
Hope's longing only joined to fears
And disappointment were my own.
One moment comes, — another goes,
My years like autumn leaves grow dry;-
When will this pilgrim journey close —
This exile and an end draw nigh?
I do not dread Eternity;
Death in my soul awakes no fear : —
There wait the golden days for me,
Which I have sought so vainly here.
Companion of my life's sad spring,
My soul confides it's grief to thee; —
Let the low plaining from thy string
Drown all my sighs melodiously.
JACHOWICZ. 303
JACHOWICZ
Stanislaus Jachowicz was burn at Dzików, in Ga-
licia. lTtli of April. 1796. His father (who was a
plenipotentiary of Count Tarnowski | died when Stan-
islaus was but a child; but his pious mother took great
eare in his education. The boy exhibited excellent
qualities of heart and mind from his very childhood;
no punishment was ever resorted to in bringing up the
lad: an appeal from the mother to her son's heart
sufficed in every instance. He went to the gymnasium
at Stanisławów, where he was always the first among
the scholars in learning and deportment, and afterward
attended the Faculty of Philosophy in the University
of Lemberg from 1815 to 1818. The celebrated Pro-
fessor Maas prized him very highly, and corresponded
with him. In the latter part of 1818 he went to War-
saw, where he entered in an official capacity the depart-
ment of Procurator-General of the Kingdom of Poland.
It was here that he became acquainted with the poet
Brodziński. But the duties of an official life had no
charms for him; the bent of his mind led him alto-
gether in a different direction: he soon gave himself up
to the occupation of a private teacher. His first fables
were published at Płock in 1824. Five of his smaller
works passed through two editions; one passed through
three, and his tables through six. different editions.
Then came the publication of " Thoughts in Kegard
How to Gain a Correct Knowledge of the Foundations of
the Polish Language " — ATarsaw, 1828. Jachowicz left
in manuscript ** Sketches of Polish History." in verse;
also a spelling-book, copiously ill ustrated with wood-cuts.
304 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All who knew lachowicz personally testify to the
nobleness of his nature, and to his great friendship of
children; and so long as the little rising generation will
speak the language of their grandmothers they will
carry his name to the remotest posterity. His fables
and proverbs can be found in almost every house in
Poland. The last edition of his works was published
in Warsaw in four volumes — 1848. Besides these he
published a new collection entitled c ' A Hundred New
Stories " — Warsaw, 1853. The substance of his fables
is an invention adapted for the understanding and the
necessities of children. In these little stories we find
the children's world dramatized; their subjects do not
touch the concerns of grown people, or any intricate-
relations of life; they simply concern the relations of
children, their little adventures, contacts, and relations
with their parents, society, etc. The author endeavors
to imbue the little folks with virtues of religion and
pleasing shadings of their every-day situations. He
pursues their little shortcomings and their little foibles
in the same good-natured way and degree of childish-
ness; the form, too, in which they are written possesses
also its peculiarly interesting manner. Jachowicz
understood that the essence of a fable is not an alle-
gory, but an example, and that allegorical examples
are not practical for children; for a child there is no
better example than to show it the doings of another
child. Jachowicz also comprehended the truth that the
heroes of his stories were not animals or trees, but
children. His manner of telling things is so easy and
lucid that every child can understand him without any
trouble, although sometimes he moralizes too long.
He died in Warsaw the 24th of December, 1857.
Jachowicz. 305
SUNSET.
The sun went down, with it one more day has passed away; —
The church-bell heralded its death through the twilight grey;
To-morrow, at the same time and hour, with bell-tones clear,
Another day shall disappear;
And after that a third, and so
Our whole life day by day shall go
An old man thought, — up and down he paced with feeble tread.
What does the old man mutter ? the thoughtless children said.
The Old Man.
Gaily with your pastimes you amuse yourselves to-day,
But your life is fleeting imperceptibly away.
See you the sunset, children fair?
Only look! see over there:
The clouds with red and gold inwrought,^-
Their play a moment was forgot.
And while they looked with earnestness
The old man spoke of sinfulness
, Repentance and a saving grace,
How swiftly day to day gives place ;
And of the vanities of earth,
They understood not then its worth.
In riper years alone their might
The sunset shone upon their sight.
They thought of what the old man said many years ago,
And finer feelings filled their hearts all with a holy glow.
The world's snares deceived them no more,
Love of wealth and glory was o'er;
Flown away as if with the wind,
And if for earthly joys they pined
The old man's sunset crossed their mind.
306 POETS AKD POETKY OF POLAND.
THE LITTLE ORPHAN.
Mother! but speak, dispel my dread, —
'Tis your own daughter, hear her plea;
I kneel and weep beside your bed, —
Awake and say a word to me!
Mother! the hands my lips have pressed
Are cold as ice. Oh, for God's sake
No longer in this coffin rest;
Open your eyes, mother, awake !
I cannot think you will not rise,
They say you will waken never;
0 mamma dear, open your eyes,
Don't you love me well as ever?
Arise, arise, from that white bed,
It looks as if it were a tomb,
And press me to your breast instead,
My heart will break within this gloom!
Ah, you keep still, my mother dear,
You wish me all alone to stay;
Must I be left an orphan here,
Torn from my mother's arms for aye?
1 have never been away from you,
Oh, may I never, never be ;
But to the grave let me go, too,
Can you seek Heaven without me?
You are so good, mother, I plead
That you will look on me with love,
And with the good Lord intercede
To join us in his home above!
JACHOWICZ. 307
MOTHER'S WARNING.
My son, said a mother, if you would be my delight,
From thy soul's depths love truth and right;
Teach your heart to loathe deeply every form of wrong,
Shun evil when alone as when 'mid a watchful throng.
The youth promised his mother, and in his eye shone clear
The light of truth — she knew that his promise was sincere.
In a few days thereafter it happened on his way
The youth passed a neighbor's garden filled with blossoms
gay
Just at that time of summer when fragrant buds disclose
In its charming beauty the queen of flowers, the rose,
To reach and pluck the fairest the eager youth essayed,
When something whispered him of the promise he had
made.
His hand dropped — he paused to think — he listened to the
voice,
A future life of right or wrong waited on his choice.
But another voice said: what does one rose signify?
The owner will forgive it, no harm therein can lie,
If you leave them as they are their hours of bloom are few;
Reach and pluck one, you shall take a sweet rose home with
you.
No one will reprove you; there are plenty, take your choice;
And he almost believed for a time that evil voice.
Your promise to your mother, — 'twas his heart's voice he heard,
He who is good and honest will never break his word.
He resisted the temptation, the flowers untouched remained,
He heard his mother's warning, and a victory was gained !
THE LITTLE JEWESS.
A little Jewish girl, pale and thin, in humble guise,
Was walking, with her hands covering her eyes,
When a lady from her window marked her feeble tread,
And sent her maid to her with a piece of bread.
308 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Thus having done her duty she felt much happiness.
What is more pleasant than easing the distress
Of the poor orphan? But out of breath the maid came back.
"Do you know," she said, "my mistress dear, — alack!
That is a Jewish girl; — who e'er thought to help a Jew?'1
The good lady was offended. " Shame on you!
She is poor, and therefore she deserves our aid," she said;
" Go forthwith, I bid you, give to her the bread.
She is a fellow creature; — the creeds don't signify; —
The sun shines upon us all, — impartially."
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
A money-box was fastened up in a public place,
And many with indiff'rence as they passed apace
Read "Offering for the Poor;" thereon they turned away
Without putting in a penny for many a day.
It stood quite empty, till at last
A poor woman dropped her mite, a penny, as she passed.
Next, seeing her, a rich man stopped,
Who some ducats dropped.
The less wealthy, moved by the sight, added to the store
Each a florin more.
Another one, who had seen the widow give her mite,
Dropped a dollar bright.
Whence comes this liberality, — this golden shower?
'Tis the example of the good. It is virtue's power
That brings the penny shining gold.
Perhaps to this hour time had rolled,
And the money-box, now burdened, remained empty quite
Had not the poor and humble widow given her mite.
Good example works wonders for the right'
KORZENIOWSKI. 309
KORZENIOWSKI.
Joseph Korzeniowski, at the beginning of his career,
was a poet of purely classic character, but when the
inspiration of new ideas came upon him he was regen-
erated in the spirit. Still this awakening was not spon-
taneous, but was caused by side influences, and it was
doubtless for this reason that his own influence on the
Polish literature, at the beginning of this change, was
so inconsiderable. He was one of the young poets
who began to write originally for the stage. He shifted,
however, from classic tragedy to a new style of dramas,
in which he imitated Shakspeare. His classic trag-
edy bears the name of "Pelopids," but his "Clara"
and "Angelique," written in measured rhyme, are of a
different cut. "The Carpathian Mountaineers" is a
drama which is considered a masterpiece in Polish lit-
erature. The same merit claims " The Monk," telling
of a life of temptation and the death of Boleslas the
Bold. But perhaps still greater is his historical drama,
"Andrew Batory," where, for the first time, Korzen-
iowski endeavored to awaken the remote past and en-
rich the literature of his country with an historical play,
and in this difficult task he came out victorious. He
delineated in a masterly manner all the characters of
the drama with great historical truth, with which he
embellished this remarkable production.
In the comedy "The Jewrs " the poet shows unmis-
takably that he is well experienced in the ways of the
wrorld and a superior judge of the human heart. He is
the first, too, who showed what significance comedy
had in a social point of viewT. In his comedy "The
310 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Moustache and the Wig" old Polish types stand in
bold relief alongside of Frenchified ways of the times
of Stanislaus Augustus.
Although Korzeniowski is a perfect master of the
language in all his pieces, he evinces great carelessness
in interesting his reader or spectator. In the old dia-
logues of the prologue it was announced at the begin-
ning what the subject of the play would be; so it is
with Korzeniowski. He tells us in advance what will
be the text of the drama, weakening thereby the inter-
est of the play; and unmindful about carrying out the
intrigue he loses the power of the comic. On that ac-
count he is placed below Fredro,* but his lyric poetry
belongs to the first class.
Korzeniowski was born in 1797, in Galicia, and was
educated at Czernovitz, and then at Krzemieniec.
After finishing his studies he went to Warsaw, where
he accepted a situation as a private teacher, offered him
by Gen. Vincent Krasiński, and later he obtained a
position as librarian in the great library of Count
Zamoyski. In 1823 he was called to the professorship
of Polish literature at Krzemieniec, where he lectured
till 1830. The year after he entered the cathedra of
literature and Roman antiquities at the University of
Kiev, and in 1836 of Polish literature, where he lec-
tured only a few months, the cathedra being abolished.
In 1837 he was one of the directors of the University
of Charków, and in 1846 was appointed the director of
the state gymnasium at Warsaw. He then was hon-
ored with the dignity of the office of Yisitator of schools
and colleges, and still later was made a commissioner
of creeds and instruction. While occupying this im-
portant office he was greatly influential in the arrange-
*A distinguished Polish dramatist.
KORZENIOWSKI. 311
ment of plans for the chief school at Warsaw. In 1862,
suffering from ill health, he journeyed to a Bohemian
water-cure, but that availed him not, and he died at
Dresden in 1863.
His dramas were for the first time published at Poc-
zajow, in 1826; "The Carpathian Mountaineers" at
Wilno, 1843; "The Monk" at Warsaw, 1830; it was
translated into Hebrew by Julian Klaczko; "Andrew
Batory," Warsaw, 1846; "The Jews," Wilno, 1843.
THE LAST LABOR.
(DUMA.)
Through thicket and through brush and -field
Traveled a man whose form revealed
The weight of years. His eyes anon
Fell on the staff he leaned upon.
Slowly he walked — his native strength
Trouble and age had sapped at length
With many deep and cruel wounds
Gained on forgotten battle-grounds.
Every day he this path would trace,
On his shoulder bearing a spade.
In the graveyard, resting a space,
To dig a grave he then assayed.
Till, weary with his work, at length
Again he rested in the shade
And at his feet he placed the spade.
Once refreshing his wasted strength,
He thus reposed with his dim eyes
Resting heavenward on the skies,
As if he sought throughout the space
The bright shades of his past to trace,
The pleasures of his by-gone days
That never more shall meet his gaze.
312 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Filled with emotion as lie thought,
His faint and trembling voice awoke,
Called back the past with mem'ry fraught,
And thus unto himself he spoke:
Evening's hush the valleys keep,
The sun descends behind the hill;
O'er the grass the dew-drops creep,
The fragrant wind sighs soft and still,
While utter silence reigns alone.
No stir about; all life seems past
Save that my heart, so weary grown,
Beats, oh! so loudly, and so fast!
The spell of utter silence round
Most grave and solemn thoughts recall.
Here is the inevitable bound!
This is the heritage of all !
For all the roads are leading here,
And wafted on their wings we come.
Every earthly hope and fear
Endeth here their weary sum.
Entrance 'tis to the spirit home,
Welcome resting place for mortals,
I would gladly pass its portals,
Never more to toil and -roam.
Willingly would I meet the change —
Happily lie upon thy breast,
Not feeling that the land is strange,
But as I were at home and rest.
I have lived through many a year,
Have seen on earth much change and gloom;
Relations, brothers, friends so dear,
Are sleeping in the silent tomb.
My voice, that sleep can never wake,
But through the gloom this thought steals o'er,
Life's billows bearing me shall break,
KORZENIOWSKI. 313
And cast me on the unknown shore.
My hold upon the earth is weak,
My sunset rays so dimly blend,
A few more tears upon my cheek,
A few more sighs, and then the — end!
All the phantoms of younger days,
And all delusions of the heart,
Pleasures of glory, love's sweet ways,
Like sounds of yesterday depart.
Long lines of years have disappeared
Like a cloud scattered by the blast,
Troubles that vexed, pleasures that cheered,
All come to nothing at the last.
Few the memories that we gain
From such a harvest large and full —
From the abundance there remain
Few roses mid the thorns to pull.
All was silent. He ceased so speak,
And with tears on his pallid cheek
Rose to his feet, and tremblingly
Began to dig his grave once more,
Till, growing weary as before,
Reposed again beneath the tree,
With the spade lying at his feet.
Thus toiled and rested he each day,
When shades of night the sunset meet,
And o'er the world in darkness lay
His last rude shelter in the land
He dug with his own trembling hand.
Thus in the graveyard he was found,
His head uplifted from the ground,
His eyes in his last sleep composed
And his blue lips were tightly closed.
Still was his voice — at rest each limb —
And his grave was — ready for him.
314 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WASILEWSKI.
Edmund Wasilewski was a poet of the heart. He
seemed to prefer being shut up within himself to ex-
ternal glistening. He appeared to suffer mental pain,
and whenever he smiled his smile seemed to mingle
with yearning and grief. His faith and his prophetic
ken seemed wavering and uncertain. Edmund's world
and life were painted in dark and somber colors.
Although his poetry sprung from the purest sources,
yet it was oftentimes permeated with bitterness. Per-
sonal disappointments made him at times cold and
indifferent as to his fate. He began to doubt about
any happiness being in this world, so that even if he
saw a bright beam of it to him it was but a piece of
rotten wood glistening in the dark, without possessing
any real light or warmth.
The collection^ of his poetry represents three differ-
ent turns or kinds — egotistic, popular, and social, — with
an occasional touch of historical coloring. His burn-
ing soul loved to pour out, in short lyrics and in son-
nets, all his dreamings, his reveries, and his frenzy.
"The Child of Frenzy "is his confession before the
world, where in painful strains he sings the history of
his life. Pure but unhappy love is the reigning theme
extending throughout many tropes. Now and then it'
connects itself with observations about the world and
peoples, and then again he complains with Werther, —
then philosophizing in the Childe-Harold style.
Such erotic feeling needs a highly creative individual-
ism to express in the usual way the feelings of an
enamored heart, and at the same time to impart to them
WASILEWSKI. 315
the witching tone of poesy. Such is his " Dream! O
My Soul, Dream!"
Wasilewski is altogether a different man when he
forgets his troubles and looks upon the surrounding
objects with a pleasant eye and good humor, when he
seeks a subject to which he could grow with his heart.
Such a subject he found in the Cracovian people. The
poet looked into their life, their customs, and their
manners, and their native character; he heard their
songs and was permeated with them through and
through, began to love them and wrought a beautful
wreath for them in his collections — "The Cracovians."
Far from his own personal fancy, which other poets
would have tried to put into the people's conceits, he
was on the contrary not only a faithful but also an
ideal interpreter of their feelings in their different and
most minute shades. His " Cracovians " are so purely
natural that you can see them in their huts and houses
just as they are, only the description is embellished by
a beautiful diction. "The Mariner's Song" depicts
different phases of life with uncommon tenderness.
His " Cathedral on the Wawel " is truly worthy of the
author. This mountain, around which are collected so
many recollections of the past and so many souvenirs
of national life, is to our poet an Olympus or a Hebron;
— in a word the central point of the world; he turns to
it continually, for there he sees every foot-path, every
bush, every relic, brings to his mind a thousand pleas-
ing visions, and as Wasilewski is on the field of pop-
ular poetry so is he here a true poet. He exercised but
little care as to the outward smoothness of his verse;
being driven by the warmest current of feeling he
wrote whatever came to his mind without stopping,
giving slight heed to minor objects. In his u Cathe-
316 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
dral on Wawel " no art is visible but the ardent feeling
of truthfulness. Thoughts that led him on in this
poem pervade all other of his labors, for they were his
inseparable domestic idols. He worshiped them with
a faith and devotedness that cost him his life.
Wasilewski was born on the 16th day of November,
1814. While a child he came with his parents to Cra-
cow, and it was here that he was brought up and edu-
cated. After finishing his collegiate education he
accepted the situation as a librarian offered him by
Wielkopolski in the Kingdom of Poland; but after a
lapse of one year he returned to Cracow, where he
seems to have been persecuted by a relentless fate, and
had to labor hard to support those dependent upon
him. In 1844 he was married to his beloved and
much sung " Ilelka " (Helen). God had given them
a son, but he soon took the child away from them.
Edmund was twice attacked by mortal sickness, but on
the third attack he succumbed and gave his -spirit up
to God, November 14, 1846.
A collection of his poems was published at Cracow,
1839; at Posen, 1849; again at Cracow, 1849, and at
Warsaw, 1859. "Cathedral on Wawel" was pub-
lished separately in 1840.
UPON THE ROCKY SHORE.
Upon the lonely, rocky shore
An old man walketh to and fro,
His head is bent 'neath tresses hoar,
His heart is heavy with its woe.
With eyes uplifted to the sky
And gray locks to the breezes tossed,
WASILEWSKI. 817
He calls his children. None reply
To him; they are forever lost!
O lonely is the castle old,
And lonelier still his aged breast,
For life is drear to him, and cold,
Spent thus from those he loveth .best.
Upon their names he fondly calls;
For them he weeps, alas! in vain;
Brave children ! to their father's halls
They never more return again !
MEMORY'S TEAR.
Do you know the tear, lady, — the sweetest tear on earth,
Which remembrance e'er forces from the heart into view,
Which one pours out in silence or deeply hides at birth,
For memory of native land or friends tried and true,
Which tenderness must shed be we bashful or severe,
'Tis the tear above all others — it is memory's tear.
Do you know the reveries, — the meditations sad
Which carry us at will to the future or the past?
Do you know the power that makes that sorrow glad,
As your thoughts flow backward or coming time forecast?
Like the faithful ivy-green winding the ruins 'round
'Mid thoughts of future time and past these memories' dreams
are found.
318 POETS AND POETRY OE POLAND.
JASKOWSKI.
John Nepomucen Jaskowski. We regret that we
cannot furnish to our readers anything definite about
this poet's life. We only know that he was an elegant
writer of ballads, elegies, and dithyrambics. One of
his ballads, which is given below, is a specimen of the
naturalness of his style; as to its application to our
own times, the reader may form his own conception.
A TALE.
One Sunday, at eventide,
The old village church beside,
An old man stood and slowly tolled the bell,
When a man, young and unknown,
With grey dust all his clothes o'erblown,
In wonder list'ning to the solemn knell,
Paused to bashfully inquire:
" From this village, agśd sire,
Who takes thus solemnly his last adieu?"
" Though the circumstance is sad,
Since you are curious, lad,
Listen, and I'll tell the tale to you.
" There lived with us, years ago,
In this village, you must know,
A peasant. Wealth he'd honestly acquired;
His board was amply spread,
Never lacking salt nor bread;
He was happy, much beloved, and admired.
" In the household three there were:
His good wife and himself, sir,
JAŚKO WSKI. 319
Were two; an only son made up the three, —
A bright, rosy, cheerful lad,
He was always finely clad,
As wealthy farmers' sons are wont to be.
" One eve the father came
From a house of noble name,
And said to his wife, as deeply he sighed:
1 My God ! what a change is this
From the mansion's stateliness;
A peasant's hut is pitiful beside.
" 'A commoner among those
Of whom each one something knows,
Am I here. It does nothing signify.
God has given us a son;
Why, then, may he not be one,
I ask you, of the nobles, great and high.
" ' For two oxen we can sell. —
He shall go to school, learn well;
And who can say what he may be in time?
He might even get a place
At the manor, by his grace,
Or to a preacher's office he might climb.'
"And they did accordingly;
But they erred most terribly,
For happiness from farm life may outgrow.
Learning in itself is good,
But whoever seeks it should
Seek it not from pride, sir. Is that not so?
" Every year more and more
Lessened still the farmer's store;
The grain went, and the stock its number lacked.
While the son in learning grew
His false pride was growing too,
And this was for his parents a sad fact.
320 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
" So year after year was gone,
And no one, as time went on,
Saw him in his old home ; and they began
'Round to whisper, on the sly,
That he in a city nigh
Was playing the role of a gentleman.
" No priest; on the other side,
He was vain and puffed with pride,
Ashamed that his father's clothes homespun were.
God sends on him judgment dire
Who regards with scorn his sire. —
Is't not so? — What's the matter with you, sir?
" In the meantime, as they say,
Through the window and doorway
Into the cottage did poverty stare;
Taking wings, the riches flew,
While the old folks older grew,
And no assistance came from anywhere.
" Though the old man's fertile field
In his youth gave ample yield,
Through it since had the tares and cockles crept.
So his need was often great,
And, bewailing the sad fate
Of himself and son, oft the poor man wept.
" Till, unhappy, tired, and worn,
With affliction overborne,
He fell in the field, prostrate, by his plow, —
He fell, never more to rise;
There were none to close his eyes ; —
Why is this, young man? You are weeping now!
" But the tale is not yet told.
There was left the mother old, —
JAŚKO WSKI. 321
Yes, she remained, entirely bereft,
Woe to ev'ry one thus thrown
On the dreary world alone,
And greatest woe when a woman is left.
" She requested one to write
To her son of her sad plight:
' My son, your vain and empty dreams release.
Have respect for my gray hair!
The estate requires your care;
Come, and you will find competence and peace.'
" Vainly were her prayers consigned,
'Twas like preaching to the wind!
The poor old mother quit her native spot.
Old and penniless from home
She departed, thence to roam,
A wanderer, 'mong people she knew not.
" So this morn, at break of day,
Dead they found her, as she lay
On her native heath, with her home in view.
And it is for pity's sake
The bells this requiem make. —
For God's sake, sir, what is amiss with you?11
As the tale closed the young man,
With expression wild, began,
While from his eyes the tears were flowing fast:
" The sole murderer am I
Of my parents; dead they lie
As lies my happiness while time shall last.
" Much I fancied, and I dreamed, —
Vain and empty visions beamed ; —
But the wind scattered them, and now I see, —
Having wakened to the truth, —
In the home of my lost youth
Utter desolation! Have pity on me!
21
322 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
" In this village, on this day,
Full amends for all I'll pay, —
Repent in sackcloth, with ashes on my head!
I will eat the humble crust,
And will murmur not; 'tis just. —
Say, but say that my mother is not dead! "
Falling prostrate on the ground,
From the depths of grief profound
Rained bitter tears from suffering so great.
The old man withdrew apace,
In his hands he hid his face,
Saying "Alas! it is too late! too late! "
ZAN. 323
ZAN.
Thomas Zan was one of the most exemplary and
high-minded young men who attended the University
of Wilno, 1820-3. After great political catastrophes
there always follows in our literature a review of his-
torical elements, social as well as literary. That very
thing occurred in the century preceding this and in the
first two decades of the present century. People
began to reflect upon the past, not only the nearest to
them, but also into the more remote periods of their
existence as a nation. The result of these reflections
was that all over the nation there began to form scien-
tific and literary societies. The learned and the littera-
teurs commenced establishing small circles, and though
they were scattered they worked together in the com-
mon cause of enlightenment. Thus, in this modest and
quiet manner, little societies were formed in Warsaw,
in Russia-Poland, in Lithuania, Ukraine, Podolia, Vol-
hynia, and in Lemberg (Galicia), and thus the progress
of knowledge spreading throughout the Polish nation
gave a great impetus and prestige to these associations.
For these there were extraneous causes, such as the
general movement in European literature, which about
this time, having shaken off the classic robes, began to
assume in the writings of several poets and writers
altogether a different direction. Another cause of the
impending change was the mental movement in the
universities. In Germany especially this feeling of
enthusiasm was created a few years before in order to
incite young men to join the ranks against Napoleon I,
and it was then, for the first time in the annals of the
324 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
world, that young men became political factors or ex-
ponents. This spirit was brought home from the
French wars, and was spread almost over all universi-
ties of Europe; hence since that time there grew a sort
of self-reliance, independence, and we may say sponta-
neous manner and ways which the young men marked
out for themselves — a thing which in the preceding
ages had never occurred. This being begotten during
French wars was continued after their cessation.
This spirit of self-reliance took hold of the Polish
youth also, and was very palpable in the Kingdom of
Poland, in Russia-Poland, and formed a powerful bond
among the Polish youths in several prominent points.
Young men came there to stay at least a year to ac-
quire further knowledge, to be examined, and to receive
degrees of learning. The most important of these
places was the University of Wilno. Here, at the
head of all young men, was Thomas Zan, a young man
of rare virtues and the noblest qualities of the heart
and mind, his pure morals and extraordinary mental
capacities, and his eloquence, and withal being very
gentle and urbane in his manners, he attached to him-
self all the youths; he imparted lessons of wisdom and
general light to all around him. In this select circle
were established literary labors in almost all branches.
Some were studying natural sciences, some philosophy,
others again were deeply engaged in historical lore,
and those who possessed a talent for poetry composed
songs, verses on all subjects, tales, and moral essays.
From this famous circle came almost all celebrated
Polish authors, and it was from this circle appeared, as
it were, the patriarch of our epoch, Adam Mickiewicz.
In the galaxy of prominently unfolding talent
around him Zan perceived especially the extraordinary
ZAN. 825
poetic genius in Mickiewicz.. An intimate and most
affectionate friendship sprang up between them. Be-
ing two years older than Adam, Zan, in a most deli-
cate and affectionate manner, assumed a careful guid-
ance over the future poet, stimulating him all the
while by the noblest examples from history, and by his
own ideas, reflections and suggestions. These efforts,
still further stimulated by a patriotic love of country,
burning within the breast of both, had the desired
effect, and Mickiewicz's poetic powers burst forth with
a resplendent luster.
Thomas Zan was born on the 21st of December,
1796, in the neighborhood of Mińsk. Shortly after the
taking of Praga by storm by the Russian army, his
father, Charles, then the mayor of Radoszkowice, was
compelled to conceal himself, while his mother had to
flee her home and seek protection at the homestead of
her husband's brother, called Miasota, where she
brought Thomas into the world. He was educated at
Mińsk and Mołodeczno. After finishing his collegiate
education he went, in 1815, to Wilno, where, at the
university, he pursued the study of natural sciences,
and where in a short time he obtained a degree of
master of arts. During a judicial inquiry against cer-
tain young men of the University, brought about by
Senator Kowosielcow, he was arrested in 1823, impris-
oned, and condemned in 1824 to be exiled; the order
was executed, and he was sent to Orenburg, in Russia,
where he devoted himself to the study of natural sci-
ences, and, by the order of Governor Perovski, estab-
lished a museum. In 1826, through the influence and
protection of Perovski, he obtained a position of libra-
rian in the mining corps at St. Petersburg. In the
year 1841 he returned to Lithuania, settled in a country
326 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
village called Kochaczyri, in White Russia, and died
there the 7th of July, 1855.
Zan translated into the Polish language Washington
Irving' s "Life of Columbus," and published in the
Russian language "The Geographical Researches" of
travels in the Ural mountains and the steppes of
Kirghiz. He also wrote fugitive verses which were
published in different periodicals at Wilno. The most
noted of Zan's literary compositions is "The Kitten,"
a tale in two parts. We could get only a few of Zan's
"Triolets," part of which Mickiewicz has included in
his poem "The Piper."
TRIOLETS.
For whom do you wreathe the nuptial wreath
Of roses, lilies, and thyme?
Whose radiant brow shall lie beneath
The blossoms wreathed in this nuptial wreath,
Woven in Love's warm clime?
Tears and blushes from them outbreathe.
For whom do you weave the nuptial wreath
Of roses, lilies, and thyme.
You can only bestow the wreath on one
Of roses, lilies, and thyme.
And what though another's heart be won?
You can only bestow the wreath on one,
Can only give tears to the heart undone
That will throb to your marriage chime
When the wreath is given to the happier one
Of roses, lilies, and thyme.
Zan. 327
Tell me why did I fear
When my eyes beheld thee first?
Why so cowardly appear?
Tell me why did I fear?
No tyrant wert thou, dear,
Yet I, shrinking, feared the worst.
Tell me why did I fear
When my eyes beheld thee first?
in.
We can love but once in life,
Once only and sincerely;
And but once feel Love's sweet strife;
We can love but once in life.
No words with wisdom rife
Can change the matter; clearly
We can love but once in life,
Once only, and sincerely.
328 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
GASZYŃSKI.
Constantine Gaszyński has not left any great poems
behind him, but in all his effusions there is a soul —
and with that he won the hearts of all his readers.
The chief quality of his composition is feeling. Of
those poetic effusions where he did not imitate anyone,
but let his heart take its natural inclination, we can
truly say that they are beautiful, and will never cease
to appeal to the finest feelings of our nature. Amidst
the changes of his life many a song flowed sponta-
neously from his heart. Some of his first compositions
remind us by their sweetness of Stephen Witwicki, and
are noted for their beautiful rhythmical form, "Three
Inspirations," "Soldier's Death," "Black Dress,"
"Death of General Sowiński," and "The National
Air," will always reach the national feeling and be
repeated by all; indeed, they have already become
national songs. Albert Sowiński, and even Chopin,
composed airs to them. They coursed throughout the
whole nation, and the generation of those days held
them as household songs. Who is there among the
Poles who does not know "When by the Shores of
Your Beloved Land" and "Usque ad finem"? The
Polish youth committed them to memory and sung
them throughout the realm.
To the better poems of Gaszyński belong "Idyls of
Youth," "Cards and Card-players," "A Satire,"
"Horse Races," etc. His translations from Beranger
and Heine are splendid, and are all distinguished by
polished and correct language. Sigismund Krasiński
had so high an opinion of Gaszynski's rhythmical
GASZYŃSKI. 329
knowledge that he would not publish anything before
first reading the manuscript to him. Besides those ele-
gant poems he also wrote romances, tales and memoirs.
After the revolution of 1863 he grasped his pen once
more, but only with a feeble hand. He composed,
however, several songs.
Gaszyński was born in 1809 at leziorno, not far from
Kadom, and received his education at the Lyceum and
the University of Warsaw, and in the company of many
distinguished litterateurs often visited the salons of
Vincent Krasiński. From the year 1828 to 1830 he
edited with Zieńkowicz "A Keview for the Fair Sex."
With the outbreak of the revolution of 1831 he joined
the national ranks, and was through the whole cam-
paign; and after the downfall of the cause, with the
rank of first lieutenant, he emigrated with others into
foreign countries. The poet's health requiring south-
ern climate, he chose Provence as the place of his resi-
dence, and settled at Aix, where he passed many years, ,
leaving the place only to meet his attached friend, the
poet Sigismund Krasiński, or to make occasional visits
to Italy.
The museums and the collections of arts at Aix en-
gaged most of his time. In 1852 he traveled exten-
sively through Italy, and his letters from that country
to a friend in Cracow formed a separate volume, which
was published at Leipzig in 1853. Speaking the French
language as well as the Polish, he, soon after he came
to reside at Aix, began to publish his literary labors in
the "Gazette du Midi" and uLe Memorial d' Aix,"
and after a few years became the chief editor of the
last named.
Being broken down in health, and suffering other
strokes of ill fortune, he died on the 8th of October,
330 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
1866, surrounded by many of his distinguished Polish
friends, as also by the first citizens of Aix, who truly
appreciated his genius and had the highest respect for
him personally as a high-minded and honorable man.
The first collection of his works was published in
Paris, 1833, entitled "Songs of a Polish Pilgrim;"
"Mr. Desiderius," also in Paris, 1846; "Other Me-
moirs," 1847; "A Chat Among the Olden-time Poles,"
1851; "Idyl of Youth," 1855; " Horse Races at War-
saw," Paris, 1856; "Poems," Paris, 1856; "A Collec-
tion of Poems pro bono Publico," 1858; "Card-play-
ing and Card-players," Paris, 1858; translation of
Krasinski's poem into French, "Before Daybreak;"
"The Last," and " Resurecturis," Paris, 1862. He is
also the author of many works and dissertations writ-
ten originally by him in the French language, the most
noted of which is "The Monograph," " Les Cabinets
de Tableaux Artistiques de la Yille d' Aix." He left in
the manuscript ' ' Sigismund Krasiński and My Inter-
course with Him," but those interesting memoirs can-
not be published until a certain time after his death.
SHAKSPEARE (A SONNET).
Thou eagle! who with mind's audacious aim
Hast touched the stars where none have reached before*
And left us grand memorials in thy lore,
Hast known man's heart, as Phidias knew his frame.
Not Dante-like wert thou — he reached for fame,
And gave his youth thoughts mysteries to explore.
Not like Byron, who roved from shore to shore,
To rest at last where Grecian stars outflame.
Thou stoodst alone, and from the wells of thought,
As Moses from the rock set waters free
Whose currents flow into eternity,
GASZYŃSKI. 331
In thine own heart gigantic voices wrought
Echoes to reach with most harmonious note
The wondering ear of ages far remote.
"O'
WHEN BY THE SHORES OF YOUR BELOVED LAND.
(Gdy na wybrzeżach twoiej Ojczyzny.)
When by the shores of your beloved land
You chance to see a shattered vessel fill,
Wrecked by the pilot's lack of judging skill —
Through shallow waters driven at his command —
Give it, oh ! give it at least a tear,
For thus is hapless Poland imaged here.
If you should chance upon an orphan child,
Alike of home and mother's love bereft,
Who, mourning in a foreign land, is left
To wait the hope's return that once beguiled,
Look in his tearful face, and you will see
Of Poland's sons a hapless refugee.
And if your glance should ever chance to rest
On some high mountain of volcanic fire
Whose flames through smoke and lava floods aspire,
Sent up from heat eternal in its breast,
Think then, 'Tis thus the ardent flames upstart
From love of country in the Polish heart.
And should your thoughts to other countries wend,
And find a people that are glad and free,
A land of plenty and fertility
O'er which no bloody scepter shall extend,
O ! raise your hands and supplicate in prayer
That Poland too such happiness may share!
332 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR AND THE SWALLOW.
A gallant }7oung warrior in far foreign land,
By strangers surrounded, misfortune oppressed,
Unable his sad, bitter thoughts to command
Of his country so dear, he by sad fate distressed,
Beheld from the West a wee swallow flying,
And said, with expression of great pain and care:
You surely flew over where Poland is lying —
What message or news do you bring me from there?
Perhaps it so happened you rested a spell,
And built 'neath the eaves of my cottage your nest,
Near by where the waters of Pilica fell ;
Where groves are sweet and vales full of rest —
There where my good mother each day sheddeth tears,
And fondles the thought of my speedy return
With hopes rising high — chased away oft by fears.
What news from my mother so dear can I learn?
Perhaps, too, you rested on Vistula's shore,
Where my lonely heart ever calls me to fly;
Where happiest bliss I first gathered in store,
And heaven I beheld in a sweet angel's eye.
Ah ! does my beloved one think of me ever,
When the winds gently from the Easter-land come?
Does she send me her longing sighs ! Alas ! never !
What news do you bring me from my beloved one?
And my comrades, alas! who with me did go
To fight for our freedom in same rank and file
At the bayonet's point — do they press to the foe?
And I here, alas! lying idle the while.
Are they living? or who of my friends was it said
Are folded away in the cold, cruel tomb?
It may be, perchance, all are perished and dead.
What news can you bring me of friends from my home?
GASZYŃSKI. 333
Perhaps 'midst my household with voice of command
The cruel foe rules my dear kindred to-night,
While fond mother's weeping and prayers they withstand,
For savage hearts now — not a feeling of right.
Here I change me to joy — from joy back to pain,
When stories so varied, uncertain I hear.
0, swallow! pray tell of my country again.
What news do you bring me of Poland so dear?
ENVY.
A refugee within a stranger land,
I marked, while mingling with the proud and grand,
The rare profusion in their homes displayed;
I saw the riches which surrounded them,
But envied not this wealth of gold and gem —
It was far other wealth for which I prayed.
I have known those who with a thrilling word
Could sway the thousand answering hearts that stirred.
Crowds knelt before them, moved to joy or bliss, .
Though such may be a mighty power to wield,
My mind aspired not to so wide a field.
I did not crave the glory like to this.
I knew two lovers once whose pulses beat
To one harmonious tone of love complete;
Whose blended lives a flower-like fragrance wrought.
Yet though I lived and moved through crowds alone,
I envied not the joy they made their own.
It was another type of love I sought.
Once o'er the sea a sailor boy returned
From a long voyage, while his bosom yearned
For kindred welcome, and his eyes grew dim;
When 'mid the throng appeared his mother's face,
And tears were mingled in a fond embrace.
Ah! then it was I felt — I envied him!
334 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
BOGUSŁAWSKI.
The subject of this short biographical sketch was
the son of a very distinguished dramatic writer of that
name, and was born in 1805. As a writer he possesses
great talent in the delineation of comedy, and it places
him in the foremost ranks of dramatic authors. He
served in the Polish army, and since 1833 has become
a successful dramatic artist.
His comedies were published in three volumes at
Warsaw in 1854, entitled "Original Comedies." Among
the most noted of these are " My Relations," " Craco-
vians and Mountaineers," "The Lioness of Warsaw,"
and "She Hates Him." All these comedies were re-
ceived with great applause. We give one of his lyrics.
SHE ONLY LAUGHED.
Once a little girl and a little boy
Played gaily together on the same lawn,
They sang the same song in their childish joy, —
John with Halina, Halina with John.
Johnny plucked tryony red, to entwine
Mid her bright golden hair with boyish craft,
And when back from the well they saw it shine,
She and Johnny laughed, — she and Johnny laughed.
In harvest time, so encouraged was he,
Like flashes of lightning his sickle fell,
When he was with her it was plain to see,
Though the sweat ran down, he could work right well.
To the church together they used to go
On each Sunday and every holiday;
Halina looked merrily to and fro,
But Johnny looked into her eyes alway.
BOGUSŁAWSKI. 335
When service was done and on coming out,
The boys and girls and the people would say:
"A very nice pair they will make, no doubt/'
Halina, of course, laughed such thoughts away.
Johnny grew to a lad as years rolled by,
True hearted and handsome, with active brain;
The maidens looked after him with a sigh,
But 'twas all in vain, — it was all in vain.
For Halina rivaled a rose's grace,
With cheeks red and blooming and almost daft;
Johnny, half trembling, looked into her face,
But she only laughed, — but she only laughed.
No longer he sang at night and at morn,
Nor decked her with flowers as when they played;
He was sad at his work, he felt forlorn,
For he loved the maid, — for he loved the maid.
Once he said for her sake, without a fear,
He would plunge in the fire if she willed so;
His language was heartfelt and most sincere,
But she laughed at his words, — laughed at his woe.
Then the poor boy covered his face from sight,
And bitterly wept in his wretchedness;
His eye became dim, and his face grew white,
So deep was his suffering and distress.
He faded as withers the grass in fall,
As flowers, when touched by the frost, decay;
He bade an eternal farewell to all,
And passed from sorrow and grief away.
On Johnny's coffin, when three days had passed,
A handful of earth Halina spread;
In the evening her tears of grief fell fast,
But she laughed again when the night had fled.
336 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
LENARTOWICZ.
Theophilus Lenartowicz was the first who followed
the footsteps of Julius Słowacki. In him we see the
songs and the feelings of the Polish people majestic-
ally raised heavenward; and when he proclaimed that
love, prayer and labor were the three shining stars
guiding the christian and national life, his honest voice
was heard, and its beautiful and truthful sounds were
received with unanimous acknowledgment by the whole
Polish nation. Lenartowicz has in him something so
rural and home-like that it makes it a pleasant task to
read his writings. Most of his poetry has so much
music and harmony in it that he could be compared
with Bohdan Zaleski, the great favorite of the Poles.
Lenartowicz resembles in his song the whole peo-
ple,— he is simple, quiet, and deep. In his humble
cottage is contained his whole heaven and his earth.
He knows nothing of the artificial bounds of societary
intercourse, which often attract the learned and re-
fined. With him God is everywhere; hence his heaven
is everywhere. Heaven to him is as dear as the earth
on which he sojourns, only it is higher and more per-
fect. To him the earth without heaven would be an
unintelligible problem; he could not understand heaven
without the earth. His heaven is earthly, and he con-
siders the earth as a living image, a probationary place,
and an ante-chamber of heaven. Among all the Po-
lish poets Lenartowicz is the poet of the future. He
is the lover of the new era just exactly as are the peo-
ple for whom he sings. The kingdom of God — which
according to the prediction of seers and bards is yet
LENARTOWICZ. 337
to come — which Krasiński contemplates with a reflex
glass and Pol expects to reach by the sword, while
Słowacki endeavors to dream it out by the process of
imagination, Lenartowicz sees with his own naked eye
of intuition.
The Polish nation, prostrated by fearful vicissitudes
of fortune, — their energies benumbed by so many
bloody catastrophes, — were glad to listen to his quiet
muse, and if occasionally it lulled them to sleep, it
was all the more welcome on that account. These
beautiful fugitive verses, appearing now and then in
newspapers and periodicals of the day, were like the
gentle breezes wafting their fragrance and cooling the
feverish brow of the people. There is much feeling
in them, much purity and originality. This originality
some may think monotonous, but it is like the flowers
of the prairie, growing separate and apart and scat-
tered over a great expanse, when made into a single
bunch apparently lose their brightness; but although
the theme is changed, whether the strings are tuned
higher or lower they always emit the same pleasant
tones.
Lenartowicz was born in 1822 in Warsaw. After
finishing his education he entered a law office as a
student. In 1837 he became a pleader in the highest
courts, and three years after was named a chancellor.
In 1848 he was offered the office of referee in the Na-
tional Commission of Justice, but would not accept it,
and in consequence of the events which then transpired
left Poland for foreign countries. During several years
following he alternately resided at Cracow, Breslau,
and Posen. Having in 1851 obtained a passport he
went to Paris, and from there to Fontainebleau, and
still later to Kome. Here his health seemed to fail,
22
338 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
hence he removed to Florence, where he married the
celebrated artiste of painting, Sophie Szymanowska,
and where he probably resides at the present time.
Among the chief literary productions of Lenarto-
wicz are " The Polish Land in Portraitures," published
in Cracow, 1848, and in Posen, 1850; "The Enchant-
ment" and "The Blessed," Posen, 1855; "New Little
Lyre," Warsaw, 1859; "Saint Sophia," Posen, 1857;
"Poems," in two volumes, Posen, 1863.
EVER THE SAME.
With the snow disappearing the ice melts away,
And the rivers their flowing begin unaware,
And the swallows that sing in the sun's cheery ray
Rise flock after flock in the air.
They whirl on their pinions, rise high, and dive low
O'er a stream, crystal clear, where the pebbles gleam white,
Then around and around in a circle they go,
More swiftly each time in their flight.
On the green of the grass overspreading the shore
Graze the cows and the sheep, clad in snowy white fleece;
On his fife plays the shepherd; — the sun rays explore
Earth's bosom and give her increase.
The gentle winds murmur and sweep through the grass,
Sway the boughs of the trees in their frolicsome play,
Grow stiller as on to the forest they pass,
And then in its depths die away.
The little birds'pause in their hymns for awhile,
Then the church bell begins its slow toll solemnly
For the prayer whose faint murmur is heard in the aisle.
Then ceases the bell, and the bee
Begins its low hum on the blossoming green,
To and fro 'mid the flowers on its golden wing borne,
LENARTOWICZ. 339
While the little girl's song rises trembling between. —
O my God! in the spring's fresh morn
How graciously all things Thy hand doth adorn!
In the shade of an old linden tree I recline,
That is scarcely beginning to burgeon and shoot;
I list, as he flits through the boughs of the pine,
How the cuckoo is cooing his suit.
0 cuckoo! O cuckoo! Of years that remain
How many are there you shall number for me?
When, O bird! — my dear bird of the prophet-like strain, —
Will the end of this counting be?
It is twelve already, if rightly I heard;
You have counted too many for me, my bird ! *
Low each bough of the apple and pear tree drops;
All too heavily laden with fruit are they;
And over the meadow the girls bring the props
To grandpa, who whittles away.
1 watch as he gives them a welcoming smile;
'Tis a picture to treasure on memory's page.
How happy I feel, though the tears start the while; —
God! give me such happy old age!
O'er the fields hung with mist see the shadows increase;
The day's labor ends as the sun westers low;
No sound greets the ear save the cackling of geese,
No sight save the white fences show.
Now and then the slow wheel of a wagon is heard;
From some creature estrayed comes a sound now and then,
Or a creak from the well when the old crane is stirred,
And then falls the silence again.
* There is a remarkable superstition in some parts of Poland in
regard to this bird, and it has its influence with almost every rank
in society ; namely, when it makes its appearance in the Spring,
each one listens, the first time they hear it, with rapt attention, be-
lieving that the number of times it utters the word "cuckoo" indi-
cates the number of years they are to live.
340 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
In the garden-patch brother is hoeing around,
Grandpa whittles and whittles, his back to a tree;
Two sisters are spreading the flax on the ground,
And chanticleer crows cheerily.
When 'tis cloudy without we are happy within;
Our roof is secure when the tempest makes strife;
And sweet is the bread that through labor we win
For father, for children, and wife.
There's pleasure in all things surrounding me here;
My country, my people, are precious to me.
In the home of the farmer dwells sunshine and cheer,
And a bird that sings constantly.
Where a wife spins and sings to the wheel's drowsy tune,
Where the rich soil yields us a bountiful crop,
Where the star bathes its ray in the well, and the moon
Rises up o'er the forest top.
Is there pleasanter looks than our neighbors can give?
Water purer than that which wells freshly from earth?
Aught more sweet than in memory of kindred to live,
More dear than the land of our birth?
And what better gift than a mind of content?
A heart open, — honest; — all else is above.
What more sad than the days of our youth, lost and spent?
What more holy than labor and love?
This world is made up of the good and the ill, —
Of all sorts of people, with natures diverse,
And they each go their ways, and they each work their will
As maybe, — for better or worse.
I spend the spare time with my children and song,
With father and grandsire, — a life free from blame;
And the days they pass smoothly, if slowly, along, —
Pass brightly, — though ever the same.
DEOTYMA.
teł
DEOTYMA. 343
DEOTYMA.
(Hedwige Łuszczewska.)*
Hedwige Łuszczewska (Deotyma) is known in the
Polish literature as a lady of extraordinary poetic
talent; she is in reality a wonderfully gifted improvvi-
satrice and rhajjsodist; hence she must be considered
as an uncommon phenomenon of our age. She is so
gifted that she can apparently, with scarcely an effort,
incarnate an idea into a living being, — not a being that
throbs, quivers, and palpitates, — but she can embellish
it with such an illusive language that it seems so. Her
lyrism is not of a slender and nauseous kind, but a
quiet and yet sublime comprehension of the subject,
united with bright imagery and loftiness. The lyric
art of our poetess consists not only of the characteris-
tics of epic poetry, but also possesses a finished dramatic
turn. The most admired improvisations of Deotyma
are ' ' Spring, " ' ' Sculpture, " ' ' Stones, " < ' Birds, "
" Painting," and "Flowers"; perhaps the best of all
is "The Highest Love." . Deotyma feels, perhaps,
involuntarily an inclination to the dramatic Muse, as
is plainly shown in her fantastic creations: "The Mys-
tery of Fruits," "Tamira," and "Stanislas Lubom-
irski," of which it can be remarked that aside from
some forms and turns resembling the monologues of
Goethe's " Faust," there is not much of dramatic art,
and there is an uncertainty whether Deotyma' s genius
is thus adapted. From these dramatic specimens she
went into epopee as " Poland in Song," and " Poetry."
* Pronounce Heel vi g Loosh-tchev-skah.
344 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Deotyma' s improvisations are written mostly under the
influences of occurring circumstances; but the multi-
tude of images introduced in them makes one feel
restive under the pressure, and at other times one gets
weary of the frequent introduction of philosophical
views, which oftentimes are but cloudy mysticisms.
Some of her allegorical compositions are wrought up
in a highly poetic and finished style ; such are ' ' The
Mysteries of Fruits," " Pilgrim," " May Visions, "
"Storm in the Desert," "Wreaths," "A Dream,"
u The Power of Song," " The Inspiration," and others;
perhaps the finest and the most finished of all is ' ' The
Prayer." The chief idea of Deotyma' s composition is
of a religious cast, — an anticipation that society can be
regenerated only by faith.
Deotyma always surrounds herself with phantasm;
it is her strongest forte, and yet the weakest. Her
notions of society, her ideas of history, and the
unfolding of human spirit in form and action, are
always rosy, well meant, and possess unaffected sim-
plicity. They are like the smiles of a child, unsuit-
able to well-wrought ideas, and not consonant with
the life of reality; but after all one cannot but admire
her many precious gems of genius, which shecl a great
luster upon the national literature.
Deotyma was born before 1840, at Warsaw. She
is the daughter of Wacław Łuszczewski, counsellor of
state, and the director of the commercial and industrial
department. Her first education was under the super-
vision of Dominick Schultz, and Anton Waga, the
celebrated Polish naturalist. She traveled in Ger-
many and other countries, and made an excursion into
the Carpathian Mountains. Descriptions of her trav-
els were published in "The Warsaw Gazette," and
DEOTYMA.
345
1 ' The Illustrated Weekly. " In 1865 she returned with
her father from the far-off regions of Kussia to her
native place.
Her poetry was published in Warsaw in 1854, 1856,
1859 and 1860.
SYMPHONY OF LIFE.
A LYRIC SCENE.
Written by Deotyma on the One Hundredth Anniversary of
BEETHOVEN'S BIRTH;
Performed at Warsaw on the 17th day of December, 1870*
Allegro con brio. Op. 67.
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* The following poem was written on the one hundredth anni-
versary of Beethoven's birth, which was celebrated with great solem-
nity in the city of Warsaw on the 17th of December, 1870. In this
beautiful lyric scene Królikowski played Beethoven, and Madam
Palinska represented the genius of Music. The newspapers of those
days write about the event as follows : " We will not even attempt
to give a correct account of the charms of the Polish verse, sublim-
ity of ideas and unassumed inspiration. Our opinion is, however,
that the performance was the most creditable representation of hom-
age to the memory of Beethoven ever given in our city.
From Beethoven's dialogue his desire is plainly shown to write
a Symphony of Life. While he sits down to the composition of his
work an unseen orchestra plays the first part of the symphony.
After that is finished another dialogue takes place before "Adagio,"
and a third one before "Scherzo," with a finale. In this way the
idea of the composer, represented by scenery and poetical elucida-
tion, exerted a magic influence on the audience. No one remem-
346 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
A portico. Back in the distance a grove. Toward one side
a column, on which stands Beethoven's bust. In the
middle a small table, having on one side the column, and
on the other a chair. On the chair sits Beethoven, lean-
ing on the table, with his face covered by his hands. On
the table before him there is inkstand and pen and musical
note-paper. From the column side Music, in a classic
dress, with a laurel branch in her hands, approaches
Beethoven, and lays her hand on his shoulder.
Music.
Beethoven, awake! I would address thy soul.
Beethoven.
I am not sleeping.
Music.
Not sleeping? Commonly
Life seems one half a dream to be —
Until Inspiration with a high control
Awakens the soul to real life, pure and free.
Beethoven (raising his head).
Under the fondling of that heavenly hand
I feel . . . my spirit wakes from mists of sleep —
Oh, my dream 'mid people fearful was and deep!
I thank thee, Music, for thy influence bland;
It has awakened me. O seraph, stay!
Come, my own beloved, and- my soul possess,
I will follow thee even into endlessness.
I am forever thine!
bers such perfect stillness and such emotion during any concert
before.
One of the reportorial corps questioned the poetess why the
genius of Music did not crown Beethoven himself, but only his bust?
The poetess replied, in the words of Naruszewicz, the poet :
"True greatness is never crowned with glory during this life,
The crown is put on after they are gone — upon their monuments."
DEOTYMA. 347
Music.
All words that thou dost say
Music hears and changes into melodies —
As genius loves genius with spontaneous glow
Thus I love thee! I take thy soul and show
To thee Creation's marvelous mysteries —
For thee I came down from regions of the sun
Into this darkness.
Come with thy beloved into infinity.
What is it thy heart would solve to day? tell me,
For Music no secrets hath from thee — not one !
Beethoven.
All to me is happiness when thou art near —
But amid the people tones discordant sound,
The stars revolve harmoniously around,
But a chaos still does human life appear.
Hearts are sobbing, and desolate spirits moan.
The songs of the world are fully known to me,
And thus sadly ask I why should Harmony
Ev'ry where exist, save in man's life alone?
Music.
Ah, thou'rt wrong! There's harmony thou must hear,
Voices of more worlds than one to comprehend —
Life is a symphony loud that rises clear —
Where voices of earth, of hell and heaven blend.
Beethoven {unfolding a roll of paper).
Stay. I would write thy utterances — that when
I shall return to the world half-dreaming still
I may show thy revelations unto men —
Awakening those whose souls thy words can thrill.
{A moment's silence.)
348 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Music.
Hark! some one comes thro1 darkness and silence drear . . .
It pauses now, say you — what hear you?
Beethoven.
I hear —
Three strokes . . . deep are they and very ominous;
The bravest must tremble . . . when that sound is heard.
Music.
Even the spirits with sudden dread are stirred,
Destiny knocks at the gates to Heaven thus.
Beethoven.
What does it wish?
Music.
With all earth's voice, in solemn tone
It calls: " Young soul! it is thy turn, come thou away."
At that sound (to none save the happy known)
The heavens are disturbed with subtle sway.
The powers of Paradise as guests regret
The interruption of the feast whisp'ring low
" Who will then open to him?" but none will go,
Although Destiny knocks loud and louder yet.
But here look ! a radiant young soul alone
By the firm voice of its own destiny led —
Suddenly rises aglow with fire of dread —
And runs to the door. . . .
Beethoven.
The portals wide are thrown!
Music.
The guest goes in. " 'Neath that mysterious cloak
What bearest thou — perdition's or glory's key?"
DEOTYMA 349
'Twas thus the soul in trembling accents spoke.
He answered: "What wouldst thou choose — oh, come
with me
On a journey toward Fame's beckoning light;
To a rehearsal on the planet — come to-night.1'
With feeling of regret the heavenly choir yearn,
Spirits at the portal hold her and repeat
"Oh, as thou leavest us — say wilt thou return —
Wilt ever return?1'
Beethoven.
Amid the voices sweet
I distinguish one . . . 'tis innocent as yet —
Pure young soul, with sad complaint I hear it dwell
With weeping on the farewell strophes — her farewell
To Heaven as though she and death had met!
Music.
Because he who is born for one world, ever dies
For another, with tears and sighs.
{Long silence.)
Beethoven.
Oh, winged sweetheart! perchance that soul no more
Was young? Perchance from Eternity's dim spheres
Too many times that road she had traveled o'er,
Or it may be sad forebodings caused those fears?
Such forebodings like sad memories seem to be.
Music.
Perhaps you guess aright.
{Silence.)
But list! life does not wait:
The soul still with fond complaint against its fate
Sinks in the embraces of its Destiny.
He grasps and covers it with its mantle fold,
350 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Bears it 'mid praise and worship from Paradise —
Behold! even worlds now from their thrones arise
By admiration and respect controlled!
Beethoven.
Yes! let them rise, and thou, Destiny, stern guide,
Be humble. The soul going where trials wait
Is greater than the sun — than cherubims more great.
Spectators these — the soul strives in arena wild.
(Long silence.)
Music.
The soul through misty abysses falls to earth from the skies,
Drowned by night and the silence far and nigh ;
Then she slowly forgets by whose desire she downward flies —
From whence she came, — whither she goes, — and why.
Awake, 0 soul! thy world is near; — 'tis rock high and steep,
Thrown out upon a lake that has no strand,
And at Life's portals angel guards their faithful vigils keep,
And they take her from Destiny's stern hand.
Two exiles from heaven, — two beloved of angels are they;
'Tis hard to choose between them: — one so fair,
The sunny love, — and the other eternal pain . . . Alway
When they go they go together ev'rywhere.
Though the young soul knows them not by sight, yet it comes
to lie
And dream upon their bosoms, and the Muses sad
Bring them into this dark world; — look! how bitter and yet
how glad;
They to waken her with fiery kisses try.
Advance stripling into life! then he took at this decree
The trav'ling staff like pilgrim 'neath a sky
DEOTYMA. 351
Dim with the twilight, gazed abashed, saying What troubles
me?
Vainly seeking through mem'ry for reply.
Where are these lights without shadows, the truth that no
change knows?
And where the lovely kindred spirits, to whom
He bade a sad farewell? here the mist profounder grows;
Yet still amidst the earth's intensest gloom.
Beethoven (ivith enthusiasm).
He will preserve his hope that the light lives somewhere still,
And that he remembers her as in a dream ;
Although outwardly bedimmed, she exists in him, and will,
'Neath the guise of conscience, though accursed she may
seem.
Music.
He prepares for life's battle, armed with hope, against all fears,
As for a dance with joy imagining
Works of might for the world, arranging plans for coming
years ;
But years cunningly disappear. Scarce a young genius shows
Promise of bloom when time claims it for its own;
Scarcely has the soul accomplished aught when weary grown
To youth's Allegro sings it the sad close.
Beethoven.
And thou, too, art weary ; — take a rest, bend down thy brow.
My oracle's words shall be in notes enchanted now.
{Here Music sits down on the steps of the column and begins
to entwine a wreath from laurel leaves. During this time
the orchestra, hidden in the grove, plays " Allegro,'' from
Beethoven's Symphony. After the " Allegro" is finished
Beethoven lays down his pen; — then Music rises.)
352 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Music.
Now the soul for the first time sits to rest beside the way,
Begins to look around . . . but by sadness is oppressed;
Although nothing seems to pain her, what tortures still her
breast?
Beethoven.
Thought!
Music.
When she begins to think endlessly her thoughts hold sway;
In life's symphony thought plays the Andante with grave
sound,
Looking at the world that is shut closely all around:
Seeing causes without effects, confession she seeks,
Upon elements, books, mankind, and boldly asks " Why? "
And when she has asked once o'er and o'er, the word she
speaks
To ev'ry one and ev'ry where.
Beethoven.
And who will make reply?
Music.
The people's answers differ, — so the mystery remains,
And Nature, who her wonders so willingly explains
Except to this "Why? "has reply for everything; —
Then to Destiny the soul turns with its questioning.
Is Destiny responsive? — will this an answer bring?
See! she grows a Titian; — so quickly soars the mind,'
She sends herself ambassador to God from mankind,
She criticises His laws, is astonished at His sway; —
But why ever from these laws do all things go astray? —
What light from her country in her conscience can she find?
Deepest melancholy envelops her.
Beethoven.
So soon.
DEOTYMA. 353
Music.
Now is the dark hour. She is in doubt amid her gloom
As to the aims of life she has cherished long and well ;
E'en dreams of eternal light these doubts dispel.
Ah! she keeps silence and even ceases asking "Why?1'
(Music sits down again on the steps of the column and con-
tinues wreathing the laurel crown.)
Beethoven.
I will take this moment while she is speaking not
To enchant in notes the mystery of human thought.
(He grasps the pen and writes. During that time the orchestra
is performing the " Andante" of the Symphony. With the
finishing of the " Andante " Beethoven also stops writings)
Beethoven (laying down his pen).
Here is the " Andante," bitterly solemn in truth,
I am as a player who counts an Enchantment's cost. While
I am listening to it I cannot in sooth
Forbear indulging in a bitter smile.
Music (rising).
You are not alone who thus smiles. Nay!
Every one will thus smile who questions truth too near,
Ev'ry thinker bears with him a sign of sneer;
As an interrogation mark it stands for aye!
(After a while.)
Terrible soul's voice with irony rife;
Her pois'nous tears e'en through a stone will go;
In the grand symphony of life
She strikes the frantic Scherzo.
23
354 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Beethoven (grasps the pen).
Wait ... I will write Scherzo. The serpents beneath my
pen
Already with venom hiss. . . .
Music.
Hold on a moment then,
In the soul open to the great
And pure light of inspiration this sneering may flit
With simple innocence, but it
Should ne'er be placed on a page separate.
(Beethoven pushes his pen and paper aside. A short silence.)
Music (continues).
Now the pilgrim of life behold!
Having thrown the bitter smile from his heart
He rose, by longing thought controlled,
And withdrew into Mystery's realms apart.
He was unconscious while his thought did progress,
Powers unknown before within him woke to life; —
Of life's problems from this day he will think less,
And he will live better, and more free from strife.
(With growing warmth.)
Man wonders with how many changes fraught
Life seems, when on it his full vision brought.
He touches it. The world is different far!
The rock of grief is harder than the thought,
But its flowers of pleasure more fragrant are.
The brave soul raised its head and looked around
As 'twere her element herself she bore.
Symphony! the brassy trumpet sound; —
Life's a battle evermore.
See the man of destiny; his touch the keys obey;
He bears the standard away!
DEOTYMA. 355
Beethoven (sadly).
And sometimes loses standards.
Music {with a smile).
All the suns with their trembling rays,
Every angel with a beating heart,
From the skies with interest lean and gaze
On man in life's struggle bearing a part.
(Draivs back as if in fear.)
It is a dreadful sight! ... Oh! what's doing there?
The angels are pale, . . . the suns no more are bright. . . .
Too many temptations! — the spirit in despair. . . .
Man, before half fallen, . . . now is fallen quite !
Do you hear his moanings?
Beethoven (with warmth).
God! wilt Thou
Arrest the fate that overwhelms him in this hour?
Will no hand rise to his assistance now?
(Reproachfully.)
Lives there for him no saving power?
Music (raising her hand).
Only one power can help him to rise,
Of which hell is jealous. Above
A vision bright appears from out the skies; —
That vision is beauteous Love!
Beethoven (gets up and raises his hand).
Above all his misfortunes now is he!
That which brought him to the world and nursed him too
Resurrects him now. In life's symphony, — 'tis true, —
Love is a hymn of victory !
O Love! thou mother of faith! 'Tis through thee
356 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Man agrees with truths of eternal birth;
He who but once loved truly on this earth
From doubt of Heaven's joy is free.
(He becomes thoughtful, sits down slowly, and leans his head
on his hands. After a short interval of silence he raises his
head, as if awakened from a dream.)
Beethoven (continues).
And the pain?
Music.
Pain? It is not needful that a mortal
Call for it from Heaven's portal.
He will find it here.
Beethoven.
Every day it will appear,
In every-day tear, in his daily bread,
In that which is changing, in that which is dead;
But it is most fearful with conscience in its face.
(Long silence.)
Music.
Up to this time man everything has tried,
But since in Love sublime harmony he perceived
He ends all there. His symphony's run achieved
Great Finale and is glorified!
In life it is long and difficult to bear,
But the end receives its reward ev'rywhere.
The longer the years the stiller are they grown,
And remembrances speak in the loudest tone.
Some weep bitter tears, that bitter tears succeed;
Others in prayer watch beside the dear ones' tomb.
The days flit away, . . . time flies with the greatest speed,
And the soul hastes on to the sfaol of its doom.
DEOTYMA. 357
It clasps it, and with mantle o'er it spread
It raises it by funeral bells' deep tones,
And while on its way worlds rise from their thrones
With emotions of expectation and dread.
Then Destiny before the heavenly gates
Halted. Now it knocks, but not alone it waits.
This time it brings with its return a soul.
Beethoven.
Happy spirits! Will you not open the door?
Then, my beloved one, tell me.
Music.
No. As to this
I am silent. This laurel for witness I take.
I promised to reveal life by song, but more
Beyond that is a problem
That death can break.
Beethoven {folding his
I will reveal God's mystery so great!
Even if o'er an abyss the spirit stood,^—
Even if love and pain followed her. They would
Of themselves ope the heavenly gate!
{He grasps the pen and writes. Music sits doivn on the steps
of the column and finishes the wreath. During this time
the orchestra plays Scherzo and the Finale of the symphony.
As the last strains of the Finale die away Beethoven throws
his pen aside and, weary, hides his face in his hands, and
falls into a deep reverie.
Music arises, and with the laurel wreath, lohich is finished,
crowns Beethoven's bust on the column. She looks once
more upon Beethoven, and, throwing him a hand-kiss, dis-
appears.)
358 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
BERWIŃSKI.
Richard Vincent Beuwinski was born in Great
Poland in 1819; finished his education at the Lyceum
of Leszno, and at the Universities of Breslau and Ber-
lin. He was for a long time a contributor to several
periodicals published in Great Poland, and was himself
the editor of a daily journal at Posen.
In 1845, while traveling toward Galicia, he was ar-
rested, and thrown into a political prison at Wisnica,
where he was kept for a year, and being given up to
Prussia he was again imprisoned at Berlin. In 1847
he was released, and in 1848 made a member of the
National Committee. In 1852 he was sent to the Diet
in Berlin.
Leaving Polish soil he went to Turkey, and from
1856 served as an officer in the Ottoman army, under
the command of Sadyk Pasha (Michael Czaykowski).
He wrote a work entitled " The Book of Light and
Illusions;" "The Book of Life and Death;" "The
Last Confession at the Old Church;" "The Tower of
the Mice;" "Don Juan of Posen;" "Wawel;" "Cra-
cow;" "Duma of a Polish Soldier in the Turkish
Army in February, 1863." Part I of his poems was
published at Posen, 1844, and Part II at Brussels the
same year; also in the "Collective Almanack," 1854,
and in "The Friend of the People" at Leszno and
Posen. Still another was published at Breslau, 1840.
He died toward the end of 1879 at Constantinople.
Berwinski was a man of high poetic talents, and a true
lover of his country.
BERWIŃSKI. 359
THE EXILE'S SONG.
Within my mother's orchard wide
The rose and lily drank the dews,
Field poppies and blue-bottles vied
. To blend with sweeter flowers their hues.
The nightingale poured out its song
In many a sad, harmonious note;
The brooklet's murmur all day long
Through dream and waking seemed to float.
I wandered here in childhood's hours,
To me a paradise it seemed;
Lightly I ran amid the flowers
Or on the earth's soft carpet dreamed.
But now, a homeless refugee
Of bitter fate, I feel the smart ;
Footsore I wander wearily,
And bleeding is my exiled heart.
I think how there at home to-day,
The poppies and the cornflowers bloom;
Perchance the roses breathe away
Their sweetness on my mother's tomb.
Shall I again those blossoms see,
Or kiss my mother as of yore?
A voice prophetic answers me:
Thou shalt behold thy home no more.
ON THE LAKE GOPŁO.*
Amid my native waters deep,
From a shattered bark,
* A large lake in Prussia-Poland, about thirty-five miles long and
eleven miles broad, by the cities Strzelno and Kruszwice.
360 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Among the billows wild I leap
Into the distance dark.
Around, above me, boundless space,
I swim in distance vast;
In all the world I hold no place,
My thoughts are on the Past.
Above me moon and stars are bright,
Here is a somber grave;
Dark doubt enshrouds me with its night,
Corpses are 'neath the wave.
Where do I swim I ask? Oh, where?
With pain to earth I bend;
A living corpse am I — Despair
And Hope my bosom rend.
Where'er I go Hope's falcon goes,
Oh, bark swim safe and sure!
If I must die I would repose
In native waters pure.
In elements of native waves
Fly my good bark away;
Oh, rise, ye corpses, from your graves,
All in my star's dim ray.
Eise, and sepulchral fragrance send
Through the chill air to me,
And star above thy glory lend
That I some hope may see.
The star now shines; the corpses fast
Beneath my feet arise —
The corpse majestic of the Past
Most fearful in my eyes.
BEKWIŃSKI. 361
He rises, looks, and all around
Now one by one they stand;
Deep saber-cut and bullet-wound,
And paws of lion's grand.
Dread shapes and colors strange are these,
Many a gory spot;
The dreadful masks my life-blood freeze —
Avaunt! I know you not.
Away from me! for my sad heart
Is pierc'd with icy pain;
Bid all your threat ning looks depart,
And never come again.
Take them away, and then to me
Direct your steps, I plead;
Why gaze you sadly, angrily,
Nor my entreaties heed?
Lions of life eternal — vain
I call on you to go.
From me what do you wish to gain?
Speak quick ! for I would know.
Give back our household gods once more —
The countless hosts that knew
Our might and strength in days of yore —
'Tis this we ask of you.
They bent to us and prayed for us,
O horror! can it be?
Our people sunk in waters thus,
Poor reptiles tread to see.
Our people? shine with hopeful gleam,
O star in clouded sky!
362 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All household gods a trouble seem —
Fly fast, my bark — oh, fly !
Oh, shine my star! 'tis not for me
'Neath native surge to lie;
Old household gods may perish, we
Immortals cannot die.
Hark! their sepulchral voices hear
In hollow, humming sound;
In fault they think me — far and near
With frowns they gather round.
O household gods! what is your want?
And corpse, what is your will?
Avaunt! old gods, and corpse avaunt!
O bark, fly faster still!
Onward, onward, without delay;
The old god, what is he?
But weak and old — he need not stay
To bar youth's pathway free.
Against the ^urge in crowds they swim ;
My words are all in vain —
Then peace be with you phantoms grim,
These tears and all this pain.
In vain, in vain, you wish to stem
Time's stern, relentless tide,
Since fate does to this world condemn
By laws that fix'd abide.
O ancient god ! forgetfulness
No hope for thee can lend;
New light of faith that shines to bless
Descend on me — descend.
BERWIŃSKI. 363
Night's shadows all shall vanish fast
If thou descend on me ;
And ere another day is past
The people sav'd shall be.
'Tvvas thus I spoke, and like a knell
I heard a moaning rise;
On the grave of the god there fell
Two tear-drops from my eyes.
Oh, lightly may the earth, I pray,
Lie on thee evermore;
So shines my morn a little way
And sweet salvation's shore.
364 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
MALCZEWSKI.
Anthon Malczewski is one of the brightest stars in
the horizon of Polish literature. It is a curious fact in
the annals of Polish poetry that, without any previous
efforts, unaided by anyone, unheralded by any poetical
composition of his own, he sprung into celebrity at
once, simultaneously with his "Marya" (Mary). He
stood at once as a prophet emerging apparently from a
dark and unlearned crowd. He sent upon the world a
poem of great power and beauty, founded upon a tra-
dition of great significance, and left the crowd without
being understood or appreciated by them. " Mary a "
is a poem of Ukraine, and there is not now a single
dissenting voice in the praise of that extraordinary
poetical production, replete with so many beauties and
touching incidents; the boldness of expression strangely
commingling with unsurpassed pathos and faultless ver-
sification placed him at once in the first rank of the most
distinguished Polish poets.
The plot of " Mary a" is this: A proud old Palatine
betroth s his son to the daughter of a friend, and, as is
usual in such cases, neglects to ascertain previously
the mind of the young count. The son falls in love
with the daughter of a noble of inferior rank, be-
tween whom and his own father a hereditary hatred
exists. The father of " Marya," seeing that his daugh-
ter's happiness is at stake, reluctantly overcomes his
ancient enmity, and allows a marriage to take place be-
tween the young couple, which, though concealed for a
long time, is finally discovered by the old Palatine.
He hides his burning anger under the mask of appro-
bation, and invites Marya to his castle. His son is
MALCZEWSKI. 365
then, in company with Marya's father, sent to repel the
invasion of the Pagan Tartars at some distance from
the castle. On his return, after having conquered the
enemy, he finds that his wife is murdered. He deserts
his home, and is never heard of more.
This remarkable poem created but a feeble impres-
sion at first. The critics of the day alleged against the
poet that his taste was unrefined, and that the way he
chose was a way leading only to error, but it was not
long before these impressions were dispelled and utterly
annihilated.
This poem, woven on the circulating local tradition,
was written in a bold and artistic style; the scenes and
incidents painted as with the brush of a great master.
Here we see, for the first time, on the Russian back-
ground, led out into sight two figures, after the ancient
Polish fashion — the ideals of Polish feelings, truly na-
tional, presented as if taken living from the history,
sinking rapidly into the past, — an apparition, as it were,
of a Polish Palatine, — the ideal of a Polish aristocrat —
and a sword-bearer, the father of Mary, also an ideal of
a Polish nobleman. Mary, again, is the ideal of a
Polish young woman who, with a pure and lofty feel-
ing, unites resolution and extraordinary courage, then
adding to it the thought of the invasion of the Tar-
tars, taken from the very heart of the annals of Polish
history — magnificent picture of Ukraine and its de-
lightful scenery, all brought out in almost tangible
shapes and embellished by the deepest feelings and
loftiest thoughts and nicest shadings, makes one think
that Lord Byron, whom Malczewski knew personally,
had exerted powerful influence over the Polish poet.
In "Marya" there is a tearing of the spirit to pieces
by strokes of adversity and grief that characterize some
366 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
of Lord Byron's poems; but still it is not the grief of an
English lord, but of a deep and earnest thought over the
misfortunes of native land, and a reecho of the intense
feeling and the sorrows of Ukraine's vast steppes,*
all this being brought out in the beautiful Ukraine.
With poetical feeling and native qualifications he was,
as it were, permeated by surrounding nature; he
dreamed himself into the local traditions and souvenirs,
and turned their native hues into poetry — and there
we see the first strong impressions of romanticism.
This great poem breathes with pure feelings of religion
and morality, overspread with the expression of plaint-
ive and painful sadness which the readers see through
their tears. Mishaps and disappointments of life are
the intrinsic strength and charm of the poem. Fresh-
ness, coloring, and almost tangible plasticity are the ex-
ternal qualities. A strange historical reverie, introduced
for the first time into Polish poetry by Malczewski,
became the characteristic of other poets; not only the
mystery of the scene which, besides the hidden objects
and gradual unfolding adds to it a great power, but
also the avoiding of the elucidation, as if on purpose,
by scattering the particulars, and fantastic visions
are interspersed throughout this renowned produc-
tion. When this poem was once understood it spread
throughout the nation by several successive editions,
and finally became so popular it mattered not where a
Pole's foot trod he could not do without it. " Marya "
is written after the manner of an epopee. Malczewski
wrote also other compositions in verse: "A Journey
to Mont Blanc;" "The Carnival of Warsaw;" "To
Julia; " "To Peter and Paul." Besides, he wrote the
tales of "Iphigenia," "Atenais," and "The Journey."
* Prairies.
MALCZEWSKI. 367
Malczewski was born in 1792, in the province of
Volhynia, and came from a distinguished family. His
father was a general in the Polish army. He received
his initiatory education at Dubno, and then went to
college at Krzemieniec, where he attended lectures on
mathematics by Joseph Czech. In 1811 he entered
the army, and in a few years became quite distinguished
as engineer under Col. Malet; but breaking one of his
legs, he in 1816 left the ranks. During the following
five years he gave himself up to literary pursuits, and
traveled in France, Switzerland, Italy and Germany.
In 1824 he returned to Warsaw, but the experience of
living in a large city taught him to appreciate the mode
of life that was not degenerate ; hence he quitted Warsaw
and rented an estate, the village of Hrynów, in the county
of Włodzimierz, and thus avoiding noisy amusements
and social gatherings, he gave up his time to literature.
An interesting love affair between himself and a
Polish lady by the name of Kuczyńska forms quite an
episode in the distinguished poet's life. Having for a
long time lived in a state of magnificence he finally, by
being very generous to those who needed his assistance,
became reduced in circumstances. He died in 1826.
His "Marya" went through thirty different edi-
tions; the last was published (illustrated) by Żupański in
1865. The poem was translated into several languages.
EXTRACTS FROM " MARYA."
The Kozak* passing through the ravine wide,
Where only howling wolves and Tartars hide,
* Here "Kozak does not mean Cossack, a Russian soldier, but a
sort of an attache of noblemen in Ukraine, and we may add in the
provinces of Podolia and Volhynia. These Kozaks were generally
selected from the comeliest and best developed young peasants, and
being traioed as messengers to duty, were, as occasions required, sent
368 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
. Approached the statue where dark shadows throw
Likeness of specters buried long ago;
Took off his cap, and thrice the cross he signed,
Then with his message hastening like the wind
Upon his snorting horse away he flew
Where Buh glides on, a streak of silvery blue.
As the bold Kozak fleetly rides along
He hears the hidden foes that round him throng;
But his good horse, as though he understands,
Bears him through blooming fields and thistly lands.
Naught speeds more swiftly underneath the sun;
Like to an arrow from the bow he wings,
His head bent low his horse's neck upon.
And through wild causeways rush these desert kings,
Rider and steed — two forces blent in one.
Thus loses Wacław* all — no more to find
His happiness and faith in human kind.
He cannot wake his loved one from her rest —
She who was all to him of dear and best;
Whose noble spirit and angelic grace
Could shed illusion over falsehood's face.
How dark her death makes all the world appear!
Alone he strays, as in a desert drear,
Or by the statue on his loved one's tomb
He mourns the malice that has wrought her doom
And chased all tenderness from out his soul.
One bitter thought therein holds dark control —
even to distant places with important dispatches and messages of all
sorts, also carrying letters to and from postoffices. They had a pecu-
liarly picturesque dress, and were the heroes of many interesting
love affairs among the pretty girls of those beautiful provinces.
Each Kozak had a fine horse and a splendid equipment, including
a "nalmyka," a sort of a short whip made of several strands of
leather woven together, and a fancy handle. These Kozaks were
also the heroes of many love songs and Durrikas, and form an inter-
esting chapter, especially in the history of the Ukraine.
* Wacław, the betrothed of Mary ; pronounce Vatz-łav.
MALCZEWSKI. 3()9
" Why did I leave her to another's care? "
When in the pallid face that greets him there
He reads of all the struggles she has known.
Then deep reproaches make his heart their own.
Of her destruction and his own, the cause,
Before this thought his life's pulsations pause —
Then in his hands he hides his face to weep.
This mood is over soon, but all too deep
The wound within him festers, poison-frought;
Leaves in his once exalted soul a thought —
Shared by the exiles — that will never sleep.
This noble youth, is he the earth's disgrace?
Ah! rather ask wherefore hath goodness place
Here, where all good with evil is denied,
Where death of parents profits to the child,
Where love of fellow beings is assumed
By those with envy of their joy consumed.
Where lofty roles and aspirations fail,
Revealing hypocrisies 'neath the veil,
And where but few the faithful hearts that blend
In love's divine ecstasy to end.
In describing "Marya" the poet says:
Though young, the winds of earthly pain
Have cast their breath upon her soul,
And, like the weary autumn blasts
That o'er the earth in anger roll
And wither flowers within the grove,
Have robbed her early hopes of love !
Within her beaming eye no more
Conflicting war of thought we see;
The flame that burned from lamp of love
And shone so happily on me
Now beams not, shows not e'en one spark,
Though with its smoke her brow is dark.
24
GOSZCZYŃSKI.
370
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 371
GOSZCZYŃSKI.
Seyerin Goszczyński is different in qualifications
as a poet from other bards of the Ukraine. The choice
of his genius was the more gloomy side of her history
and the inherent qualities of her nature. It is the
creative spirit leading vice to a feast of revenge. Dark
clouds of fantasy ever avoiding the serene sky and
searching everywhere charms overcast with dismal-
ness, are his characteristics. Wild transports of pas-
sion, battles, treason and murders are the usual themes
of his poesy. His pictures and figures are not put
forth as the ideals of a mere illusion, as Zaleski's; not
in any melancholy, dissolving itself over a landscape,
as in Malczewski, but they are thrown on the back-
ground of wild nature with a complete truthfulness
and reality. Such elements he has introduced in his
poetry with impassioned delight, and yet he does not
offend aesthetic feeling nor morality. We have no
poet who could excel him in painting so truthfully the
scenery of nature — nor one who could more admire
and appreciate its beauties. His genius is still more
to be appreciated when we lean; the fact that it is not
given to one and the same individual to excel in two
different things. — to fathom the depths of passion and
to comprehend the grand and sublime respiration of
nature. "The Castle of Kaniów " represents scenes
of bloody adventures which filled the whole of Ukraine
with horror and pain. Here the poet brought together
all the horrible events of that painfully memorable
epoch. He dramatized this tale, interweaving into it
incidents at which the soul is horrified, not at all re-
372 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
lieved by introduction of any of the softening influ-
ences of heroic love at least burning faintly in the
depth of grief and revenge. He delineated, however,
the appalling reality, and placed its pictures in the
sight of his own poetical fastasy, illumed only by a
flame of a night's conflagration. Yet these wild and
terrible beauties are in fact the true beauties of a crea-
tive artist, — the conception of the poem and its finish
of genius — but perhaps its most striking features con-
sist in the prominence of figures and characters, —
uncommon individuality. Only great mental powers
could produce a poem like it.
Goszczynski's poetic spirit is strong, inflexible, deep
and fiery; wide as the river Dnieper, and boundless as
the limitless steppes: hence his poetic creations are
likenesses unto himself. Occasional incorrectness of
expression and the lack of clearness in the elucidation
of subjects is alleged against him, as also great haste
and precipitancy, but his buoyant spirit would not at
all times submit to certain precisions in composition.
While soaring through his beloved Ukraine, with its
beautiful scenes engraved upon his heart, he breathed
forth his inspirations untrammeled by any small obsta-
cles that lay in his way. Ukraine was his mother,
who nursed and fostered his poetic spirit; and it was
there where he spent his youth.
When Goszczyński came into the Carpathian Moun-
tains, and having surveyed their gigantic proportions,
their scenery and their beauty, — a lone wanderer
amidst this grandeur, — he wrote a poem, " St John's
Eve," and proved himself, as in "The Castle of
Kaniów," to be a master artist in the delineation of
nature's grandeur.
Severin had a different task from almost any other
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 373
poet before him. He cut loose from despondency and
ideals, and was the first to approach reality in the
spiritual world. He wTas the forerunner of bloody
and violent commotions; and Mickiewicz's "Ode to
Youth" was a sort of a political manifesto; so was
Goszczyński^ ;% Feast of Revenge," — a watchword
calling to action. His ''Three Strings" is also a
poem of great inspiration, of loftiness and harmony.
His latest poem, "The Mother of God,1' turns the
heart and mind to those blessed sources whence flow
faith and life.
Besides these he wrote "The King of the Castle,"
in which he has shown that even in our prosaic age
and in every-day spheres of our lives there is poetry;
but the genius of the poet is here intensified to bring
into plain sight poetry where a common eye cannot
see it, by representing objects in charming and en-
chanting colors.
Goszczyński belongs to that class of bards who,
whenever they strike with their rods there immediately
appear rich treasures of poesy. If he had not written
anything else beside "The King of the Castle," it
would be enough testimony that the soul of the author
possessed the power of the enchanter's wand, who has
awakened poesy in stones, and, like the second Moses,
can draw a spring of pure water to refresh and strength-
en the enfeebled and waning vital powers of the dying
Israelites.
His talent of presenting his characters in bold re-
lief is worthy of great admiration. With the artistic
brush of a Shakspeare he takes objects of ordinary
kind and lifts them up to higher ideal powers. In
some of his poems we can see a certain degree of ex-
aggeration, but he is never deficient in presenting facts
374 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
on the foundation of historical truths. His style, with
its customary freshness and beautiful coloring, is occa-
sionally unpolished and sometimes rough, but it is
always in harmony with the spirit and substance of
the subject. Goszczyński comes out in his poems not
only as an artist, but he also represents himself as a
political individuality. In all his compositions he paints
prominently his youth, his dreamings, his tendencies
and action. From these we can discern his physiognomy.
Goszczyński was born in the city of Lince, in Uk-
raine, in the year 1803. From 1811 to 1814 he at-
tended school at fathers Piiars; later he attended the
school at Winnica, and in 1816 at Humań; but his
education was completed at Warsaw, where he formed
ties of mutual friendship with such distinguished men
as Bohdan Zaleski, Louis Ziółkowski, Maurice Moch-
nacki and Michael Grabowski. With the latter he
went to Vienna in 1818. Returning to Warsaw, he
was active in the general national agitation. After
the downfall of the revolution of 1831, toward the end
of the year he went to France, and immediately joined
the so-called sect of Towiański and became one of
the most ardent of his adherents. He was heard of from
France by publishing in Posen, in 1842, a tale, "The
King of the Castle." In 1864 he wrote a beautiful
but somewhat mystic poem, "The Mother of God."
In 1867, on the 4th of May, he sent his oration to the
cemetery of Montmorenci, at Paris, on the occasion
of unveiling the monument erected to the memory of
Adam Mickiewicz. He died in 1879.
His works were published: "The Castle of Ka-
niów," Warsaw, 1828; "Writings," in three volumes,
Breslau, 1852; "The King of the Castle," Posen,
1842; "The Mother of God," 1864.
GOSZCZYŃSKI.
CONSCIENCE.
In living body drest,
And yet a corpse, I keenly feel that I
Have long outliv'd myself, and vainly try
To find a place of rest.
Adverse my fate, most sad my doom;
I fear all things, — all things fear me.
This radiant world to me is as a tomb; —
A specter cloth'd in mourning must I be.
Suffering as a penitent,
I roam the world with weary feet,
Where'er I turn some grief I meet.
Shunned by all things innocent,
While all most bitter 1neath the sun
Forever to me closely clings;
But more than all my sufferings,
The phantom-like, nude skeleton
Of conscience comes a specter dire.
'Tis in the way before my eyes;
It ever eats my heart as fire,
And " suffer, son of baseness ! " cries.
Endure life that's a living death;
One time you courage lack'd to yield your breath
For your own glory and for others' good.
Fate brought you to a tyrant's presence then.
The impulse Heaven gave you you withstood,
Though with oppression moan'd your fellow men.
Eyes that the people's chains beheld
Overflowed with pity mild,
But the brave heart, with throbbing wild,
Almost tore the breast wherein it swelled.
Of action then had fully come the time;
Before you lay a new and noble life, —
Perhaps a tomb, — but freedoms tomb sublime, —
The famous bed of glory after strife;
376 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Triumph's bright wreaths had budded for you sweet,
Hymns prepared your ears to greet
From grateful people you had sav'd. But, no!
You would not let your poor life go.
A cold ordeal yours has been,
Yet dark and dreadful was your sin.
Your duty you neglected. When I cried,
My voice to stifle long you tried.
Suffer yourself, — struggle with dread, —
Torment yourself, — let your heart bleed.
Since you'd not die when there was need,
Die while you are dead!
NEW YEAR'S PRAYER.
God! who art above the skies,
Wanderers we come. Most wise,
To Thee to bring
Our prayers, and sing
For our dear country's sake.
O God! our dear people bless, —
Poland's sons save from distress.
Break thralldom's chain!
And slavery's bane
From our dear people take!
O God! Wilt Thou bless our land-
Bless Poland's wandering band!
In freedom yet
May she forget
Grief ere her sun goes down!
Bless, O Lord, every one
Whom Poland claims her son, —
Who strives with zeal
That greater weal
May his loved country crown!
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 377
Oh, then, God of mercy! bless
Our sad watches with success.
May they be brief,
Our days of grief,
Leave to return — never !
Look upon our sore distress.
Grand in Thy forgiveness,
May rays divine
Of Thy grace shine
Round our land forever!
POL.
378
pol. 379
POL.
Vincent Pol occupied the first place among the
true national poets. From the beginning of his poetic
career he was a faithful exponent of experienced im-
pressions. Pol is an inspired traditional bard, and ex-
quisite delineator of quiet scenes, of the home-hearth,
of patriarchal life, and always a lover of simplicity.
His poetical character is apparent in his "Songs of
Ianusz," "Pictures of the Mountaineers," in his
"Fugitive Pieces," and "Songs of Our Home." His
" Songs of Ianusz " are not only nicely adapted to the
present generation, but they are that class of composi-
tions which future ages are waiting for — because one
can see in them a whole living nation in its past, the
present, and the unfolding of the future. It has been
said of him that, if in the memory of men all traces of
national life were obliterated, and the little golden
book containing the "Songs of Ianusz" were pre-
served from destruction, the inspired historian could
guess correctly the character of Polish history that
was, and a new bard could equally draw his materials
from the same source, and could reveal its future.
"The Pictures from Life and Travels," in which
the poet presents his songs to the people through a
smiling tear, does not fall behind the "Songs of
Ianusz," for, even if their limits are somewhat nar-
rower, they have enriched the people with treasures
hitherto unknown, for they have struck deeper into the
heart than anything of the kind before. Nothing is
more beautiful than these pictures. With a heart full
of love Pol went into the mountains, looked over and
380 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
around, guessed all and comprehended everything. He
makes the language of gigantic nature his own. " The
Songs about Our Land " are so many diamonds, which,
although glistening with various colors of different
Polish dialects, constitute nevertheless one bright and
luminous light for every part of the Fatherland.
In writing these songs it was the aim of the poet to
demolish the walls that separated different parts of
Poland by dialects and customs distinguishing them
from one another; to get them acquainted with each
other; lift their spirits above the common level sur-
rounding them; to place them together on high, and
to show them the beautiful land flowing with milk and
honey, and to say to them: " See, here! here is your
Canaan! "
It can be asserted with truth that stillness is the
most charming Muse of Pol. She always delights in
calm tranquillity. She leads him into the shades of
eternal woods, so that they might tell him of their im-
memorial history. She takes him to the ancient clois-
ters, where their somber appearance tells him of events
of long ago. Wrapped up in reveries of charming
tranquillity he sings in elegiac tones of fertile fields, of
meadows, mountains, and the magnificence of Polish
rivers. These songs are not vain Jeremiads, but the
expressions of grand reality, and as they are founded
on truth they only charm the more. Pol can, in a
thousand ways, present his native land in the most
interesting and beautiful colors.
With ever-present freshness Po± charms his readers
and insures his compositions a deserved reputation;
he knows how to knock at the heart, and the feeling of
his readers always approvingly responds. His diction
is stamped with manly age, comporting with the epoch
pol. 381
of which he is a distinguished representative. In him
one finds a certain fullness of form and vitality of in-
ternal powers, ever accompanied by a peculiar peace
of mind and an equilibrium between ardor and reflec-
tion leading the spirit into a world of calm resignation.
His family attachments are very strong, as is his at-
tachment to his fatherland and his native heath. In
his retrospection of the Past one can see the sorrows
and mourning of an orphan, but without any bitter-
ness, or any apparent feelings of deep affliction.
Thus far Pol has passed his life in literary pursuits,
not only with the greatest credit to himself, but also to
the pleasure and satisfaction of his countrymen. Some
of his poems are wrought with the skill of a great
artist, for, frequently while reading them, it seems as
if he sung them himself with a harmonious and charm-
ing melody.
Pol was born in 1807 in Galicia, where his father
occupied a place in the judicial department. He
was educated at Lublin, and after finishing the course
he traveled in Rhenish provinces. After the events of
1831, in which he took an active part, he returned to
his native surroundings, and then traveled over the
Carpathian Mountains, and resided for some time
among the mountaineers. In 1846 he experienced
fearful strokes of misfortune. In 1847 he organized
the chronological publication of the library of Ossoliń-
skis. In 1848 he obtained a diploma of "Doctor,"
and became a professor of geography in the University
of Cracow. He afterward retired to Lemberg, where,
we suppose, he still resides, full of years and honors.
His works were published in Posen, Cracow, Leip-
sic, Warsaw, and Lemberg. Among these we can
mention "Poetry of Vincent Pol," "Mohort," an he-
382 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
roic rhapsody, " Getting Home after a Storm," " Pic-
tures of the Mountaineers," "Song of a Prisoner,"
"Memoirs of Winnicki," "My Aunt," "The Word
and the Fame," "The Street Organ," "Songs of Our
Home," "A Tale without an End." Besides these
we can mention his "Dissertations on Natural Sci-
ence" and "Geographical Lexicon." "The Songs of
Ianusz " (Pieśnie Ianusza) were all written by Yincent
Pol.
SONG OF THE MOUND.
" Leci liście z drzewa,
Co wyrosło wolne."
0 tree nursed by freedom!
Thy leaves are fast falling;
Over the mound yonder
A lone bird is calling:
There never was — never —
One hope for thee, Poland;
The dream is departed,
Thy children have no land!
pol. 383
Flame wraps ev'ry village,
Destroyed is each city,
And voices of women
Rise calling for pity.
From home and from hearthstone,
In swarms all are hasting,
In fields of their labor
The ripe grain is wasting.
When children of Warsaw
Repeated her storj^,
It seemed as if Poland
Would conquer with glory.
They fought through the winter
To summer's sad waning;
To welcome the autumn
None — none were remaining.
The struggle was ended
For hearts vainly burning —
To hearths of the native
No feet are returning.
Some earth cover'd over,
In dungeons some languish,
Some scattered in exile
Of home dream in anguish.
No help comes from Heaven,
No aid from hands human,
We weep o'er the waste lands
That flowers vainly bloom in.
O dear country Poland!
If 'mid thy despoiling
The children who loved thee
Had taken while toiling
384 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Of earth but a handful,
By fatherland nourished,
Rebuilt on lost Poland
Another had nourished !
LITTLE STAR.
O thou little star that sparkled
When I first saw light,
Wherefore has thy brightness darkled?
Why so pale to-night?
Wherefore shin'st thou not as brightly
As when I, a child,
On my mother's bosom nightly
Slumbered, dream-beguiled?
Swiftly, swiftly, hast thou sped thee
Through the blue beyond;
In be wild' ring way hast led me
Ways I should have shunn'd.
Through the heavens thou speedest gaily,
Followed I thy lure;
Of my life bloom weaving daily
Garlands premature.
But the roses in them faded —
Yellow grows my May;
With the life so darkly shaded
No illusions stay.
On the vistas spread before me
Look I now through tears;
Since in heavens stretching o'er me,
Pale thy light appears.
pol. 385
O my little star! restore them
With thy sparkling rays;
Still my soul is longing for them,
For those happy days.
With them yet I fain would linger
Past delights I crave
Ere my fate's relentless finger
Beckons to the crave.
25
KONDRATOWICZ.
(SYROKOMLA.)
KONDRATOWICZ. 387
KONDRATOWICZ.
(Syrokomla).
Louis Kondratowicz, known under the pseudonym
of Syrokomla, is one of those youthful poets who
in their time stood at the head of the bards of
greatest literary power. He was equally a learned
scholar and a profound thinker; he did not chase after
fame on account of his originality, but as a master of
the forms already in existence; he adorns them with
the pearls of his poetic spirit, besides an uncommon
ease and simplicity which throws charming surround-
ings around the reader. The lyrico-epic mantle of his
"Chit-Chats " is the same as Pol's and Zaleski' s, gush-
ing from the sources of inspiration. To the minds sea-
soned to the glistenings of eternal youth of the
pictures of long ago his compositions proved welcome
visitors. In this species of poetic creations consists
Syrokomla's fondness. From his "Chit-Chats," in
which the historical narrator and sad-feeling lyrist
unites if himself the different qualities, we find almost
in every line — in every thought, — fresh fragrance of
nature and truth; we perceive everywhere natural
colors of simplicity, happily conceived, and so plainly
expressed that even a man unacquainted with the past
history of his country and literature, if he were only
possessed of pure feeling, would be immediately
initiated in Syrokomla's tenderness and simplicity. As
are the "Chit-Chats" so are also his "Fugitive
Ehymes," which we find in great variety, but always
marked by expressions of fidelity to nature and tender-
388 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
ness of feeling ; but when we still further consider the
beautiful intellectual principle and honest intentions
we still more admire their intrinsic value. There we
find a true love of God and humankind, honest and
appreciative feeling of beauty, and a noble incitement
to everything that is good, and always an upright
tendency toward progression.
Perhaps the most feeling of all of Kondratowicz' s
poetic creations is u The Death of Acernus." He took up
very skillfully the beautiful and yet very mournful
scene of the death of the Polish poet Klonowicz(q. v.),
of the sixteenth century. The poet, impressed with
the solemnity of the hour, sings with great feeling and
tenderness the sad demise of the bard, who in the hour
of God's inspiration rebuked the sinners, and tried to
turn his beloved countrymen to truth, contrition, and
repentance.
Another great service rendered by Kondratowicz to
Polish literature was the translation of Polish-Latin
poets, such as Kochanowski, Sarbiewski, Szymonowicz,
and others, which were published in his " History of
Polish Literature." Kondratowicz was one of the
most fertile of Polish poets, and although he did not
excel in everything, he could, with his simplicity and
deep feeling, draw tears from the eyes of his readers.
Enlivened by true poetic spirit, he excelled almost all
of his contemporaries in the depth of feeling and the
love of his native land. In these wonderful " Chit-
chats " we hear the roar of the old Lithuanian forests;
we plainly perceive the winding of the grand blue
rivers; we again converse with our old and noble an-
cestors; we see the old battles, victories, and joyous
feasts; — in a word, whatever this tender poet sings
from his pain-stricken breast breathes with love of
KONDRATOWICZ. 389
everything that is true, familiar, and natural. In
peace and harmony with the whole natural brother-
hood, he saw the salvation of the Polish land, and
upon this he founded the happy futurity of the people.
He rebuked and satirized the old foibles and chimeras
of the nobility, and tried to eradicate these stumbling
blocks so that the people could be once more united by
the reciprocal ties of brotherly affection. The chiefest
stamp of Syrokomla' s poetry is the characteristics of a
people governed more by the impulses of the heart
than the mind.
Kondratowicz was born in 1822 at a place called
Smolków, near the city of Mińsk. He received his
education from Fathers Dominicans at Nieświeżo. At
twenty-one he was married and settled in a rural dis-
trict. In 1853, having lost by death several children,
and suffering himself from ill-health, he went to Wilno,
but in a short time returned again into rural life, not
far from where he resided formerly, and lived almost
in seclusion. After a while he gave his property up to
his parents and settled in the city of Wilno. In 1858
he traveled in Great Poland and visited Cracow, where
he was received with much cordiality and distinction.
Returning he lived again at Wilno, from whence he
went to Warsaw. Being overpowered by bodily sick-
ness and great mental depression, he succumbed to the
accumulated vicissitudes and died the 15th day of
September, 1862.
All the writings of this distinguished poet belong to
that class that are truly popular. Although eighteen
summers are passed away since his death, the Polish
Nation can hardly realize that Syrokomla will sing for
them no more — forever!
The following are among his works that were already
390 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
published: "Chit-Chats," and "Fugitive Rhymes,"
Wilno, 1853; "Baka Regenerated," St. Petersburg,
1854; "John Demborog," Warsaw, 1854; " Cottage in
the Woods," and " Margier," Wilno, 1855; '"Death of
Acernus," 1856; "Johnnie Cmentarnik," 1856; "The
Old Gate," " Easter Thursday," " Days of Penitence
and Resurrection," 1858 ; "Wanderings in My Dis-
trict," "Ulas," a war pastoral, 1858; "Sophia, the
Princess of Sluck," 1858; "Poetry of the Last Hour,"
Warsaw, 1862. Also "The History of Polish Litera-
ture," and a most beautiful translation of the songs of
Beranger. All the known and unknown writings of
Kondratowicz were published by Iagielski, at Posen.
DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
(Śmierć Słowika.)
Shut in a wire cage amid the great city's roar
Was once a nightingale;
But his desire to sing grew on him more and more; —
So strong it must prevail.
Here is no shade, — no elder trees, — no hazel bush
His little head to hide; —
No sweet companion here, — for here no streamlets gush
And through the meadows glide.
No dear ones here to hear him sing, though he should die
Amid his bursts of song.
In the congenial open air he may not fly,
His narrow cage is strong.
Instead of gentle winds the wheels' harsh rumbling blends
With shaking walls' loud jar;
From carriages of rich men, finely drest, ascends
The dust-cloud near and far.
KONDRATOWICZ. 391
Murmurs of a noisy crowd instead of streamlet clear
In busy, bustling ways;
Oh! where is peace and quiet? where is freedom here,
Prophetic songs to raise?
His soft breast almost bursts; now his small head shakes,
He chokes with blinding dust;
But born into the world a nightingale, he makes
One effort — sing he must.
With sweet increasing melody he lifts his song,
Sings out his longings vain;
But soon his voice is drowned by hurrying throng,
Intent but on some gain.
His notes soar higher and higher, o'er all the noise
In musical despair,
Thrilled by the memory of vanished joys,
When he was free as air.
His little wings are weak, — he flaps them all in vain;
He flutters with faint breath;
His warm and tender heart just warbles one more strain,
But 'tis the note of Death!
THE SOLDIER WANDERER.
(Na tern twardem szczudle mojem.)
With this hard crutch to lean upon
I have wandered all the wide world o'er
Mourning the ills I've undergone,
My countless woes and trials sore.
God only knows how much I've borne
While fighting boldly in the war;
And proofs of valor I have worn
Where balls were flying thick and far.
392 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
How oft on picket I've remained,
Pinched with hunger, chilled with cold,
Yet murmured never nor complained,
But did my duty true and bold.
And at my general's behest
I've waded to the fortress' wall
Through blood of comrades I loved best, —
Could aught more terrible befall?
Though I was not a soldier long,
I've fought on famous battle-grounds;
Have lost a limb, — once good and strong, —
And suffered honorable wounds.
Now I must beg from door to door.
Ye rich! with ample fortune blessed,
Though fate has. granted goodly store,
Ye harken not to the distressed!
Such is the recompense of all
Who nobly acted, nobly fought.
And happily does it befall ; —
My spirit grieves, but changes not.
THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE LARK.
'Tis morn ! You sing already, lark, and I begin to plough, —
For man must dearly purchase life by toil and sweat of brow.
He labors for his household beneath the heavens so broad,
While ye, who toil not, live. Still we are children of one God.
You are my companion now, though different is our lot.
You dream of love and pleasure; but, oh! I know them not.
You are gay and happy ever, and when the morning breaks
You fly to swell the grand " Hosanna" the angel wakes.
Your sweet song pleases heaven, and your thanks are very dear
To our God, who gives the little that you require here.
KONDRATOWICZ. 393
And your joyous chatterings, oft repeated, o'er and o'er,
To all the world announce the praise to God forevermore !
You sing already, lark, and I with aching heart must plough.
As you heavenward rise, dear bird, pray for the ploughman
now.
Say that, sailing o'er the village, you saw much misery,
And hunger, too.* Spring is not as kind as your sweet melody.
Rising early in the morning, we scarce can lift our hands
To praise our God. Our breasts are chilled, and sorrow by
us stands.
The sight of spring nor morning star can bring us gladsome
cheer,
When every morn the church bell tolls the death of loved
ones here.
The children cry, men suffer, and the world is hid by tears;
For the lark the spring is life, but death the ploughman fears.
Pray for us, lark, that pitying God may take us in His care,
And grant us heaven to sing His glory forever there!
COUNTRYMEN, I BEG ASSISTANCE.
(Pomoc dajcie mi Rodacy.)
Countrymen, I beg assistance,
Trouble sorely has bereft me;
I must beg for my subsistence,
Since for toil but one hand's left me.
Countrymen, in this land royal,
A poor wand'ring fellow mortal,
A bold soldier, true and loyal,
Begs for aid without your portal.
Both my aged parents leaving,
Leaving home and wife so cherished;
* Written during great scarcity.
394 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Leaving my poor children grieving,
Fought I where I might have perished.
On the battle-fields most gory
Fought I 'neath my country's banner;
Blood I've shed on fields of glory,
Now to beg beside your manor.
Of my wealth a thief bereft me,
Storm and fire my home molested;
Brother, mother, wife have left me,
In the grave they long have rested.
'Neath a cruel fate's oppression,
Scorn and need with grim persistence
Leave me nothing in possession,
Save one hand to beg assistance.
Joy and hope no longer burning —
I but wander, wander ever,
For my native heath I'm yearning,
But I shall behold it — never.
Some old friend my mem'ry keeping,
Mayhap thinks of me with longing;
Some perchance may fall to weeping,
Their sad thoughts towai;d me thronging.
Where steel clashed and balls were ringing
When I fought the foe, if only
Some swift ball from mercy winging
Had but stilled this heart so lonely.
Sword in hand death would have found me
Fighting 'mid the leaden shower;
But to-day grief closes round me,
Which no weapon can o'erpower.
KONDRATOWICZ. 395
MATTHEW'S UNLUCKY TURNS.
"(Przyszła kryska na Matyska.")
Matthew lived in days now olden;
His like since has ne'er existed —
Handsome, with a fortune golden,
Of rare joy his days consisted.
He was loved and knew no trouble,
And though some with envy burning
Saw his fortune, none thought Matthew's
Golden tide would e'er be turning.
And a maiden, black-eyed, handsome,
Loved him with a love confiding,
Vowed Dear Matthew, my own darling,
My true love shall be abiding!
But another chap with money
Came and bought her heart's affection;
Matthew, spurned, received this cruel
Stroke of fate in deep dejection.
My dear Matthew, never mind it —
Sorrow not for such a trifle ;
To the tavern come and join us,
Quickly all this trouble stifle!
Thus his chums beguiled his sorrow
With their words of cheer and gladness;
"Right, friends," Matthew said; this folly
Paid he for in grief and sadness.
In the bowl he drowned his sorrow,
Half a week he drank for pleasure —
Treating all who came around him,
Treating without stint or measure.
But in paying for the liquor
All his money was expended —
To his wretched home he wandered,
Ill-luck evety step attended.
396 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
1 From his trouble and hard drinking
Matthew sickened unto dying- —
Then the doctor came to see him
All his trouble multiplying;
For his visits and prescriptions
Took three horses from the stable.
Then poor Matthew left the country —
To endure his fate unable.
Ere he died he thus concluded:
By my friends to be remembered,
In my will I must leave something
To each one for service rendered.
In his hut, alas! was nothing
But some matting old and tattered.
And poor Matthew sighed perceiving
All his plans by ill-luck shattered!
At last dying, as Job's turkey,
Poor was he, and ruined wholly;
The old remnants of his wardrobe
Formed the rest for head so lowly.
At his funeral was no mourner;
Who has seen aught so depressing?
Four old beggars bore the coffin —
Now was fortune most distressing.
'Neath the grave-sod in the churchyard
He was buried; ah, poor fellow!
His demise no bells were tolling
In their tones so sad and mellow.
By the side of a small chapel
Is a fir-tree cross; the path you
Trace and read thereon as written:
" The last turn has come to Matthew.'
odyniec. :;(,>7
ODYNIEC.
Anton Edward Odyxiec, born 1809, is the author
of a few lyric productions, such as " The Wedding,"
etc., but he distinguished himself chiefly by his trans-
lations. He translated Walter Scott's "Lady of the
Lake," "The Bride of Abydos" of Byron, "The Fire
Worshipers " of Moore, "Corsair" and " Heaven and
Earth" by Byron, also "Mazeppa," and rendered into
Polish the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," by Walter
Scott. The translation of ballads from Burger, Żu-
kowski and Pushkin, as also Schiller's "The Maid of
Orleans," revert greatly to the credit of Odyniec.
His satiric poem, "The Specters," combines elegance
with great wit, and a wholesome moral to the would-
be poets. When nothing could drive away ghosts
from a haunted building, the declamation of an indif-
ferent poet of one of his compositions at the witching
hour of night set the ghosts to yawning, and so dis-
gusted them that they left the premises, positively and
forever. Mr. Odyniec resides at present in Warsaw.
His " Felicita, or The Martyrs of Carthagena," a
drama in five acts, as also "Barbara Radziwił," are
esteemed as productions of very high order.
PRAYERS (A LEGEND).
" Des Herzens Andacht hebt sich frey zu Gott,
Das Wort ist toclt, der Glaube rnacht lebendig." — Schiller.
The sight of a lake! Oh! how beautiful!
At evening's hush in summer's time,
When over it gently the soft winds lull
The waves to sleep with a mystic rhyme.
398 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Oh! how gratefully then the billows' roar
Sounds in the ears of lookers on;
They glisten with blue near the further shore,
Slowly fade as they near anon.
With just such weather, the skies were bright,
Gently sighed the evening wind,
When a worthy pastor, at edge of night,
Beside the lake his way inclined.
Already the last bright rays of the sun
Behind the mountains strove to hide;
But from the West appeared a single one,
That strangely charmed the waters wide.
The pastor to heaven lifted his eyes,
And long he gazed in holy thought.
How good! how mighty is He! and how wise!
Who all these stars to being brought!
The sun's fiery course to His will He bends,
Compels the moon along her way;
To fill the soundless depths the water sends;
Bids them remain, and they obey.
Why is the grass upon the earth so green?
The night so dark? the day so light?
Who gave spring flowers? autumn's scene?
Sweet fruits and grain for man's delight?
Whose mandate, — " Let there be," — created all?
And whose breath caused this world to be?
Thus musing did the pious pastor fall
Before his God on bended knee.
After a moment's pause, upon the tide
He turned his eyes once more, and then
A peasant, leaping over a log, he spied,
And saw him jumping back again.
ODYNIEC. 399
"That's for you, God,*' at ev'ry jump he cries,
And, jumping back, " this is for me."
The pastor viewed the act with much surprise.
" What are you doing? " questioned he.
" I pray." " How's that? " the pastor said; " 'tis odd.
Can it be you know not your prayers?
Have you no church? Have you no house of God?
No pastor who the Word declares?"
" I knew not from my childhood's early day.
Amidst the woods I've lived alone,
Nor wander hence. I have no time to stray,
But praise my God as best I've known.
11 Whether I sow, or gather sheaves of grain,
Or whether I am making hay.,
Whether the sun shines bright, or falls the rain,
I praise and thank my God alway."
The pastor marveling his knowledge spare,
Began the worth of prayer to tell,
Explained its nature, taught him the Lord's prayer,
And spoke of God and virtue well.
And when he deemed that he had well impressed
His teaching on the peasant's heart,
And said the prayers once more with him, he blessed
The boor, and went his way apart.
With a slow pace traveling o'er the sand
He passed at length around the lake,
And saw the evening star in luster grand
Above the hills in beauty wake.
Through the immensity of heaven's blue,
Swimming in the effulgent light,
Its rays from the lake's bottom glitter through,
Like memories of past delight.
400 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Its brightness seemed close to the bottom clasped,
Like virtue to an upright heart;
It will last unchanged, though by whirlpools grasped,
Though billows over it roar and dart.
As the mist of the valley upward goes
By sunbeams from the meadow caught,
So the pastor's spirit heavenward rose
On wings of happy, pious thought.
Then he heard a voice. From afar it spake,
And, ah! he is filled with sudden fear.
For, walking on waves of the rolling lake,
He saw the peasant drawing near.
"Wait, O father! wait!" the peasant besought.
" Repeat the prayers before you go
Once more ; for what you told me I forgot,
Although I wish them well to know."
The pastor, seeing such strong evidence
That in God's grace he had a part,
Said to him: " Son, in your own way pray hence; —
More than the words God loves the heart.
" Before the throne, my son, — first precedence, —
Your virtue and industry take,"
The pastor said. The happy peasant thence
Returned in safety o'er the lake.
JULIAN KORSAK. 401
JULIAN KORSAK.
Julian Korsak has a peculiar characteristic of his
own in a certain style of lyrical boldness and loftiness,
and laudable competition in translations; and another
fact which is not to be overlooked is his noble en-
deavors (in which he was successful) to beautify the
Polish verse with flowers of Eastern poesy. The
whole is stamped with these attractions, and forms
quite a large volume — "Poetry of Julian Korsak."
In this volume his lyrics are flashing with resplendent
light. The two-sided soul of his poetry is glistening
toward the West with lyrics, and to the East with
" Bey ram."
Korsak has done great service to Polish literature
by his translation of the " Divine Comedy " of Dante,
upon which he labored for twelve years, — and we may
say the best part of his life. In this work, permeated
and carried away by the spirit of the great master's
Christian poesy, we find many explanations of points
in the poem very difficult to understand.
In the translation of this poem Korsak had not
alone in view his own personal fame, but also a con-
scientious responsibility; uniting his own spirit with
the spirit of Dante, he seemed to have acquired new
poetic strength as well as inspiration; all conceptions
and thoughts — in fact all the spiritual powers — un-
folded within him on the grandest scale, befitting the
bard who sung the great theme of Eternity.
He was born in 1807, and after finishing his educa-
tion in the University of Wilno, from 1826 to 1830, he
resided alternately at Warsaw and St. Petersburg, de-
402 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
voting his time to still further improvement and cul-
ture. After the death of his father he succeeded as
heir to a large landed estate in the county of Słonim,
and was made the president of the county court ; but
at the expiration of his term he returned into rural
seclusion and devoted himself to literature and sciences.
In the year 1853, in order to improve his failing health,
he went to Nowogródek (Newtown), and after a few
months' illness died on the 30th of September, same
year.
His work " Poetry " was published at Posen, 1833,
and at St. Petersburg, 1839; " Lara," from Byron, 1836;
"New Parnassus," translation of Shakspeare's tragedy
of " Eomeo and Juliet" ; " Twardowski the Sorcerer,"
"Dramatic Dialogues," " Camoens in the Hospital,"
and many fugitive pieces. The " Divine Comedy "
was published in 1840.
THE FROZEN TEAR.
Soft o'er the white bed falls the moon's pure light; —
'Tis bleak and chill, but Love its vigil keeps,
As maiden hither comes each dreary night,
And at her loved one's tomb till morn she weeps.
'Tis bleak and chill, but neither drifting snow
Nor wintry storm the maiden's heart appalls.
She seeks his grave to pray — her sad tears flow,
And one bright drop upon the gravestone falls.
The tear was hot, but, chilled by the cold blast
And storm at night, was frozen to the stone
Like drops of sleet to tree limbs frozen fast,
Through all the night all, all the day it shone.
An angel saw it and with joy divine
Within his hand the frozen tear-drop bore.
JULIAN KORSAK. 403
Pity in heaven willed that it should shine
A pearl in her bright crown forevermore !
MY BELOVED ONE.
Her lips are ever streaming
Sweet kisses unto me,
Her eyes which light are beaming
Are light as eyes can be; —
How beautiful is she !
Oh ! when to me she's speaking
My .soul her accents hears,
And though my heart were breaking
She'd soothe my grief and tears; —
How tender then is she!
Whene'er her true love greeting
She moves in airy grace,
Their lips in kisses meeting
And clasped in close embrace,
How passionate is she!
When change's wing soars over
Joys green and springing heath,
Misfortune finds her lover
And blasts him with his breath,
How constant then is she!
Before a week be flying
Another love she'll take,
And scorn her first love's sighing,
Although his heart should break; —
How fickle then is she!
She bids her lover smother
His feeling, and depart;
Her hand she gives another,
But no one owns her heart; —
How curst, how curst is she!
404 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WITWICKI.
Stephen Witwicki was born at Krzemieniec, in the
province of Poclolia, where his father was a professor
in the Lyceum. After finishing his education he went
to Warsaw, where he obtained a position of great
honor and importance, being appointed one of the
chiefs in the " Commission of Learning." In the lit-
erary fights of those days between the Classics and
Romantics he joined the ranks of the latter. He left
his lucrative office, preferring to go to France, where
he became personally acquainted with Mickiewicz and
Zaleski, and turned his mind to the awakening of the
true religious feeling of the Polish people.
Witwicki was a thoughtful, careful, and a finished
poet. He wrote ballads, pastorals, and biblical po-
etry; also tales in verse, as, for instance, "Edmund,"
his "Life's Account of a Country Gentleman,"
"Spring," "A Change," and "The Voices," the last
especially of great Christian humility, but full of po-
etic power. His moral and literary miscellanies are
pleasing and instructive. His "Evenings of a Pil-
grim," and in fact all of Witwicki's poetical works,
were published in Warsaw, Paris, as also in Leon
Zienkowicz's "Library of Polish Poets," Leipsic,
1866; his "Gadu-Gadu" (Chit-Chats), at Leipsic in
1850, and at St. Petersburg, 1852. This honored bard
died in Kome, 1847.
CUPID.
A little boy of curious ways,
With brilliant eyes and rosy lips,
WITWICKI. 405
With golden hair and damask cheeks,
I met with on my morning trips.
I gazed upon him for a while,
Thinking he had a tale to tell —
When with a lurking, meaning smile,
He asked me " If my heart was well?"
But gazing at my visitor
I saw some arrows 'neath his wing;
Aha! said I, there's danger here,
With this mischievous little thing!
Again he asked, while there I stood,
If to his pangs I was a stranger?
I answered not, but quickly ran
From such a sudden, threat'ning danger!
With panting breast and bosom thrilling
At having 'scaped from such a storm,
I fled unto my Anna's dwelling,
To hide beside her lovely form.
But know ye what betel me there,
How I was caught in Cupid's snare?
I fell exhausted at her feet,
And lo! the little rogue was there.
THE WARRIOR.
('"Rrzy mój gniady, ziemie grzebie. ,ł)
Yonder stands my sorrel neighing —
Parting time draws near;
Farewell father — farewell mother,
Farewell sisters dear.
Haste my steed! the voics calls loudly
To the battle plain —
On the field thou lookest proudly,
Proudly shak'st thy mane.
406 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND,
To the field where hosts assemble,
With the wind away!
Let the foe before us tremble —
We shall win the day!
'Mid the ranks of dead and dying
If I chance to fall,
Take thy way, my steed, in flying
Homeward free from thrall!
Hark ! I hear my sisters calling —
Shall we turn my steed?
No! to where the foe is falling
Let us haste with speed!
JOSEPHINE.
If thou shalt ever meet
Spring's sweetest, loveliest rose,
With balmy breezes sweet,
Whose cheek with brightness glows
Like Orion's purest light,
Whose words breathe but delight,
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she!
ii.
If like the silent stream,
When flowing without noise,
Or like the moon's sweet beam,
From thoughtless crowds she flies;
To all she knows is kind,
Pure, noble, and refined —
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she !
WITWICKI.
407
III.
If thou shalt see a tear
Roll down her rosy cheek,
And if she doth appear
With feeling pure to speak;
And in her brightest eye
Thou shalt see modesty,
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she !
iv.
If thou shalt ever see
Some orphans or the poor,
Who driven by poverty
Enter her welcome door;
And if her heart doth beat
With sympathy replete,
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she!
But if thou e'er of love
To her by chance shalt speak,
And if a tear of sorrow
Do not bedew her cheek;
And not a sigh she give,
Her bosom does not heave,
And if she does not ask for me, .
My Josephine, — it is not she!
408 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
GOSŁAWSKI.
Maurice GosŁawski was born in 1805; a man of the
noblest heart and most exalted mind; not only one of
the greatest Polish poets, but also one of the truest of
Poland's sons. Being concerned in the revolution of
1831, he was never remiss in duty as a soldier, nor
neglected the cause of his country as a patriot. He
was so honest and honorable besides, that he had the
love of the whole country, and when he died we may
truly say that Poland lost not only one of her greatest
poets, but she also lost one of the most high-minded
and honorable of her sons. His death took place in
Stanisławów (Galicia), 1839.
Almost all of his poetry breathes with most devoted
love to his country and a friendly and brotherly attach-
ment to the whole people. He is the author of "Po-
dolian Wedding," " Renegat," "Banco," and many
others. His fugitive pieces are full of great poetic
spirit and pathos.
HAD I THE ROYAL EAGLE'S WING.
"Gdyby orłem być."
Had I the royal eagle's wing
How soon Podolia's air I'd breathe,
And rest beneath that sunny sky
Where all my thoughts and wishes wreathe.
'Tis there I first beheld the light,
There passed by happiest, earliest years ;
'Tis there my father's ashes lay,
Sunned with my smiles, dewed with my tears.
GOSŁAWSKI. 409
Oh! were I but the regal'bird,
I'd fly to where my steps once trod,
And where my hopes are buried up;
Then change me to an eagle, God!
Oh ! would I were a brilliant star
Whose light illumes Podolia's groves,
That I might gaze throughout the night
On her, the girl my spirit loves !
Then from the silvery clouds I'd send
Unto her eyelids visions bright
As those soft rays which Luna beams
Upon the lakes in summer's night.
To watch with eyes unseen her steps,
To gaze upon her form afar, —
My soul's transported with the thoughts ;
Change me, O heavens, to a star!
Why dream the thought, my bursting soul,
Thy aspirations are in vain; —
Exiled to far and foreign land,
Ne'er shall I see my home again.
Accursed am I ! yon eagle soars,
The star of night rolls glittering on ; —
My home is far, — my soul is chained,
Tears flow around me, — hope is gone!
UNCERTAINTY.
Dearest! I keep a secret still —
A holy secret, all my own;
My eyes with tears for sadness fill,
I smile and make my rapture known.
410 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
But darling ! in those eyes of thine
There glistens neither tears nor joy;
I see not there the doom divine
Which shall uplift me or destroy.
Thou hast no need to tell me twice
Of the destruction held in store,
One look from thee will still suffice:
In it are all my hopes — and more.
My soul 'tis easy to upraise
To that which makes it paradise;
Its only need or wish to gaze
Into the heaven within thine eyes.
RAYMUND KORSAK. 411
KAYMUND KOESAK.
Kaymund Korsak was born in 1767, in White Rus-
sia, and was a colonel in the Polish army. As a poet
he is mostly known by his elegant effusions " To Poe-
try," as also by his "Introduction" to the poem of
Kev. Baka on iw Infallible Death."
He died in Podolia, 17th of November, 1817. His
friend, Bohusz, erected a monument to his memory,
with this inscription: "The memory of a' virtuous man
shall outlive ages." He distinguished himself in lyric
poetry, especially in the composition of hymns.
ODE TO GOD.
Avaunt! ye empires, powers, kings,
That this too-little earth contains;
My Muse a higher theme now sings,
Heaven's pure regions she attains!
To her, my Muse, the Alpine height
Is as the valley spread below;
From turbulence she taketh flight,
From crash of storms that overthrow.
She speeds aloft on soaring wings,
And loses in aerial realms;
All monuments of earthly things
Before the glory that o'erwhelms.
Thou sovereign of birth and death!
At Thy command, — supreme, divine, —
Rose suns and stars and worlds beneath,
But never was beginning Thine!
And what our feeble thoughts transcend,
Thou neither yet shalt have an end !
412 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Thou sittest on majestic throne;
Time at Thy word begun its course;
All omnipotence is Thy own;
Of wisdom Thou Thyself a source.
Stern justice rests within Thy hand,
For us Thy mercy still provides.
O Lord of all! whose sole command
Creates, exalts, upholds, divides!
Thou on unaided power dost rest,
Before whose thunder angels quake,
And through the heavens manifest
The might that stills when storms awake.
Thou lightest stars, and dost create
The rocks that hide not from Thy face;
Thou rulest o'er all human fate,
And with Thy presence fillest space.
In the beginning, self sustained,
Thy will itself created Thee,
Thy wisdom in its breadth contained
Of worlds the vast immensity !
Above the chaos spread around,
Mid elements confusion rent,
O'er darkness all unpierced by sound
Thy living breath, Thy touch, wast sent.
Then rose the sun with glowing ray,
And nature saw creation's day!
EXTRACT FROM A RELIGIOUS POEM.
For gifts bestowed since earth I trod,
That to my saddened heart were given,
I thank Thee mostly, O great God!
That but a mortal I am here.
GÓRECKI. 413
GOEECKL
Anton Goeecki was a writer of lyric poetry and
fables. The distinguishing marks of Gorecki's fables
are that they are in reality little satires, with a view
of pointing out the weak side of the society in which
he lived, and to correct faults and foibles in a general
way. His ballad "The Doom of the Traitor to His
Country " is truly beautiful. "The Taking of the Pass
of Samo-Siera " is also an uncommon production. All
his fugitive compositions are permeated by genuine wit
and patriotic feeling. As a poet his name will always
occupy a high place in Polish literature.
Górecki was born in 1787, in the province of Wilno.
His education began at home and in the schools of
Wilno, and later he entered the University of Wilno.
In spite of the Russian government's orders he made his
way through to Warsaw and joined the army. In the
campaign of 1812 he distinguished himself as an officer
in the battle of Smolensk, and received the cross of the
Legion of Honor and participated in all battles. After
napoleon's return he went to Cracow to be healed of
his wounds. He settled in the country with the rank
of captain, and gave himself up to farming pursuits,
literature and poetry. After 1815 he traveled in for-
eign countries, visiting Germany and Italy. Returning,
he settled in Lithuania, and was one of the most active
members of the so-called society of "Ragamuffins,"
but in reality a club of young men of great talent, who
published a newspaper called "The Street News," a
very celebrated institution of its day. After the break-
ing out of the revolution of 1830 Górecki, being a
414 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
member of the national committee of Wilno, was made
agent, and went to Switzerland, London and Paris,
where, after the end of the revolution, he remained till
after his death. He was in close connections with
Mickiewicz, Zaleski, Witwicki and other distinguished
men, and shared with them the vicissitudes of a life
generally experienced by refugees. He died the 18th
of September, 1861.
His works were published in Paris. "Poetry of a
Lithuanian," 1834; "Fables," 1839; "Seyba," 1837;
"New Collection," 1858; "Another Little Volume,"
1859; and "Miscellaneous," 1861.
DOOM OF THE TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY.
" Śmierć Zdrajcy Ojczyzny."
The night was dark! The gloomy silence poured
Calmness on Nature's breast, to peace restored;
Then the pale moon arose to view,
And nearer the appointed moments drew
When spirits, on their tireless wings,
Descend beneath the star-beamed glow
To soothe with sleep the sufferings
That mortals know.
Beside the river
Which flows forever,
Whose turgid billows moan unrest,
A stately castle rears its crest.
There a loathsome traitor lies
On gilded bed, that gives no ease,
And waits for sleep to close his eyes,
And bring his guilty bosom peace.
GÓRECKI. 415
Now and again the glimmering light
That from the costly lamps outshone
Showed through the shadows of the night
The wealth obtained through crime alone.
With care and labor, year by year,
Of gold he hoarded many a store.
The treasures of the world were here,
But, lacking peace, he slept no more.
The moments fly!
The town clock, striking solemnly,
Tolls twelve — but yet no blessed sleep
Doth o'er his weary senses creep.
Yes ! from his pillow sleep goes hence
To huts, and lets its blessing fall
O'er those who lived in affluence
Ere for their country they lost all.
But he, his land's degenerate son,
Waits still for sleep to bring relief,
And, trembling like an autumn leaf,
Kemorseful shivers through him run.
Sleepless, he leaves his gilded bed,
Bends o'er the coffers filled with gold,
And thinks to soothe the spirit's dread
With glittering treasures there untold.
Hark! through the heavens a roll of thunder crashes!
The lightnings blaze in ire!
The flickering lights expire!
Backward the door, unhinged, the whirlwind dashes!
Then the pale moon gleams through,
Disclosing to the view
416 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A stately form, and staid,
In mourning garb arrayed.
A still and somber guest,
With pale hands folded on a bleeding breast.
Beholding that pale form,
The traitor trembles. Whether it is warm
With life he knows not, nor can comprehend.
His hair stands up on end,
And he cries out, " Who tries to frighten me?
Speak, or die instantly ! "
But from the form is heard
In answer not a word.
It only nearer draws, with silent tread,
And sighs instead!
The traitor then, despite his soul's alarms,
Growing more confident, resorts to arms.
The trigger pulls in ire!
The weapon flashes fire!
The bullet, in its eager thirst for blood,
Echoes through the air its thud,
And strikes the apparition — but it draws
Nearer, with noiseless pace,
A noiselessness that awes,
And stands before the traitor face to face.
The phantom on his trembling shoulder lays
A hand whose chill dismays,
So death-like is its clasp!
His brow is dewed!
He sinks subdued,
Another weapon clutching in his grasp.
Then spoke a voice in gentle tones,
Like brooklet purling o'er the stones,
GÓRECKI. 41
As musical as sound of lute,
As sad as winds in church-yard mute.
11 Hold! for the ball is vainly sped.
I live not in this world, but with the dead.
Son, tho' thou wouldst doom me to the grave,
Yet still I live, and am here to save!
I see thy soul with keen remorse oppressed,
And I would win it to eternal rest,
And I forgive. No mother's heart is won
To turn against a son! "
But as she spoke the dwelling rocked,
As by an earthquake shocked.
The shades of night made moan,
And through their shadows thrown
A dark-winged shape appears.
And in an awful voice of thunder says:
" Forgiveness there is none for him who slays!
Who sheds his brother's blood must reap in tears,
Stand up therefor
Before God's judgment evermore
Then ceased the spirit. On the couch he cast
The traitor's lifeless form.
His soul he bore away through clouds and blast;
While moaned the wind, and lightning rent the storm.
TO A LADY LAUGHING AT A STAMMERING POET."
Within these few lines are forever recorded
Two errors: I stammering, you manners unheeding.
Posterity's judgment will thus be awarded:
My error was nature, your's lack of good breeding.
27
418 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
FABLES.
THE OXEN AND THE SPANIEL.*
About a certain farm there arose a dispute.
A judicial tribunal undertook the suit.
All the oxen belonging to the farm involved
Anxiously regarded the question to be solved:
Who would be their future master? Wishing a report,
They asked the spaniel to please hasten to the court,
To ascertain the facts, if anybody knew.
But the spaniel answered, " Why should that concern you?
'Tis of no consequence to you, respected friends,
Who obtains the farm; for, howe'er the matter ends,
Be it John or Peter, or whatever the name,
You will be commanded to work on, just the same."
THE BIG SHIP AND A SMALL BOAT.
It so happened once beside a coast,
A small boat, wise in its own conceit,
Lying in port, tied up to a post,
And seeing, far out, the wild waves beat
A large ship, as the storm beset her,
Said: " Shame! that it can swim no better! "
Just then more fiercely the wind up blew;
Lo! the small boat's line was snapped in two;
And helpless against the rock it crashed,
Till into small fragments it was dashed.
THE DROP OF WATER,
" What would it avail for me, one drop alone, to go
Away from my cloud-companions to the earth below?
Uselessly would I perish, and do the earth no good."
Thus reasoned every drop of the rain brotherhood.
*Written during the Vienna Congress, 1815.
GÓRECKI. 419
In consequence of this did a fearful drouth succeed,
Till one of the little drops, perceiving the earth's need,
Said: "Whether I'll help or not, I'll make a sacrifice."
Sodownto earth she dropped from her cloud-home in the skies.
Then the heavens sent after her to the parching plain
Many more; till, drop by drop, there came a cheering rain
That revived the farmer's fields, and saved him from distress,
And made his heart o'erflow with joy and thankfulness.
'Tis noble to give a good example to others,
And make sacrifices for the good of our brothers.
SPARROWS.
A FABLE.
Old sparrows grouping on a tree,
Very learnedly conversed,
Finding fault with ev'ry bird, whate'er it be.
Hoopoo's tuft-head provoked their gossip first.
The jay, thinking he is pretty, is so vain.
The golden oriole, like the thrush, is plain.
The dove pretends modesty, but when she flies
Her aspiring flight her gentle mien belies.
The cuckoo, most selfish all the birds among,
Slips slyly in other neste her helpless young.
The bullfinch alights upon the highest tree,
Goldfinch thinks his song the finest melody.
And a crazy-head, the wagtail he flies,
As soon as the morning's light begins to rise,
Out to each nook and corner — everywhere,
With turned-up tail and eager, prying air.
But as these birds themselves were only sparrows,
They at others shot their arrows.
But idlers they through summer sweet,
Who but consumed the farmer's wheat.
420 POETS AND POETRY OB^ POLAND.
BALIŃSKI.
Charles Baliński was a poet in every sense of the
word. He looked into the future, and wove it into
pains and disappointments, longings and anticipations
of his own life< In this respect he resembles leaves
which, when crushed, give fragrance they could not do
before being thus destroyed.
His poems, modestly entitled "Writings of Baliń-
ski," are very well known wherever the Polish lan-
guage is spoken. Among them are contained some
compositions pertaining to the first epoch of his life,
when he was expelled to Siberia. These poems are of
remarkable beauty. " Faris, the Bard " occupies the
most prominent place. "The Prayer for a Cross" is
equally distinguished for poetic power. His transla-
tions from Calderon secured for him the first rank
among translators. Other original creations of Ba-
liński, as "The Yoice of the Polish People," "A
Brotherly Word to the Songster of Mohort," "The
Cross-Road," "Penned Up," stand high in poetic
merits. The rhythmical construction of the verse and
the beauty of expression remind one of the painstak-
ing and exactness of classic poets.
A year before his death he sent a part of the poem
entitled "The Sufferings of the Redeemer" to the
library of Ossolinskis. This splendid literary produc-
tion, though incomplete, is written on a more extended
poetic scale, well and happily conceived, and rendered
with great harmony in a truly masterly manner — a
composition which could inspire its author with a just
pride. He also left, in manuscript, sketches of Polish
BALIŃSKI. 421
literature, or rather the development of the national
poetic spirit, including specimens of poetic and prosaic
Polish authors.
Baliński was born the 27th of May, 1817, in a vil-
lage near the city of Lublin, While at the Lyceum at
Warsaw, and after the death of Arthur Zawisza, one
of the scholars wrote on the blackboard "Exoviare
nostris ex ossibus ultor."* On account of this verse
the whole school would have been subjected to the
strictest investigation, but the noble youth (Baliński),
wishing the scholars of the Lyceum to go unharmed,
took the blame upon himself, and was imprisoned, but
after a thorough investigation released. However, not
long after that occurrence, he was suspected of partici-
pating in certain patriotic doings, was arrested, im-
prisoned, and finally sent to Siberia, where he re-
mained until 1844, but on the birth of the present
successor to the Russian throne he was released.
While in Siberia Charles lost not only his comely
looks, but also his health. The result of this un-
toward event was that his affianced, after seeing such
marked change in his looks, recanted her promise.
In the year 1848, being threatened with another perse-
cution, he fled into Galicia (Austria), then into the
Duchy of Posen, and at last found a shelter in France,
devoting himself to poetry and literary labors. In
1863 he returned to his native land to take care of his
brother, who was severely wounded, and lay very ill
at Cracow From here he went to Lemberg, and
found generous assistance in his literary pursuits.
The columns of "The Annals of Ossolińskis' Library1'
having been opened to him, he continued his poem
"Life and Death of the Redeemer," but death pre-
* May an avenger arise from our bones.
422 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND-
vented its finishing. He died on the 10th of January,
1864. He was a near relative of Baliński the histo-
rian.
His "Writings" were published at Posen, 1849;
"A Few Literary Labors,1' Warsaw, 1846; "Tales for
the People,'' Warsaw, 1846; "Brotherly Word," Lon-
don, 1857; "A Collection of Poetry," 1856; "The
Sufferings of the Redeemer," Lemberg, 1864, etc. etc.
EXILED PRAYER IN THE SPRING
Our Father! Thou hast brought the spring again;
Again Thy hand strews gifts and makes us glad ;
Joyful in rich profusion smiles the plain,
Yet Father, we are sad!
The winter gloom has swiftly winged away,
The heavens above us don their clearest blue;
But with the grass that springs in fresh array
No hopes for us renew.
Earth hears the birds that throng in joyous troops, ,
Reviving dew upon her bosom lies;
Behold the primrose of our hope! it droops —
For lack of dew it dies !
Birds in returning home beyond the sea
Dip wings with tuneful song in ocean's foam ;
But we, poor pilgrims — when, alas! shall we
Returning find a home?
The new sun lighting up the world to-day
Makes beautiful earth's bosom cold and stark
But for the exiled sheds no cheering ray —
All, all for us is dark!
BALIŃSKI. 423
But we, so long as any strength is left,
Will with sad hearts united as in one
Pray with the voice of millions thus bereft,
Give us more sun — more sun !
WHAT'S THE USE OF DREAMING?
What's the use of our love-dreams
Of plucking roses — promise beams?
Roses shun our quest;
Now here like the migrating bird
We are on the outpost afterward —
There perchance to rest.
Hearts, cease your dreaming! it is wrong;
Bearing our cross with cheerful song,
As to a dance go;
No more the sword-hilt we shall clasp,
But hands shall say in friendly grasp
God sends joy below.
Pleasure may come to us at last;
Thou knowest, God, the future vast —
What will meet us there;
Thou knowest to whom smiles are dear,
And whose grave in the coming year
Flowers shall make fair.
THE LIVING CORPSE.
Near a city there is a grave;
Sadly Vistula, wave on wave,
By it ripples, but in. the mound,
Look you! a living corpse is found.
Do not wonder — the world is rife
With life in death and death in life.
424 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The corpse looks forth and courage takes,
Sees the people pass to and fro;
Friends' kind faces that come and go,
Newly hope in his heart awakes.
They come to see me then, said he,
EvVy one sighs and thinks of me.
But thinking naught about the dead,
Pass the people with rapid tread ;
Life is short — it were all in vain
To fill their time with thoughts of pain.
Let the dead rest in peace, they say
And let who lives enjoy his day!
At last one comes, nor passes by
He gazes mournfully around,
Throws a flower upon the mound —
His brow is pale and sad his eye,
Yet hastes he on as others do;
Is he afraid of corpses, too?
Then thought the corpse — oh, thanks to thee
My brother, none have thought of me,
But all have coldly passed me by,
Light of heart, with averted eye,
All save thou alone, moaned he.
Alas! they've all forgotten me."
KORNEL UJEJSKI. 42f)
KORNEL UJEJSKI.
Kornel Ujejski, the bosom friend of one of the
most renowned Polish poets (Julius Słowacki), was
born in 1823 in the county of Czortkow, in Galicia.
He wrote with great perspicuity and finish. His poems
are very chaste and classic. The poem written on the
death of Adam Mickiewicz only increased his celebrity
as a poet. His lt Enamored Bride,'' u The Dreadful
Night," ''The Funeral March, " and the biblical melo-
dies "Rebecca and Jeremiah"; as also the "Plough
and the Sword," are contributions to the Polish litera-
ture of the greatest value. We may also add that he
is the author of1' The Flowers Without Fragrance,"
"The Withered Leaves," — compositions of great
popularity; but the most popular poetical production
of Ujejski, known and sung as it were in every palace
and cottage, is his "Hymn of Complaint" — "Z Dy-
mem Pożarów," — which was written during the ter-
rible uprising of the peasantry, instigated by rascally
officials, in Galicia in 1846, when towns and villages
were burned and sacked by the infuriated mob.
At this present time he occupies the honorable posi-
tion of a member of the Chamber of Deputies in
Vienna, Austria. Mr. Ujejski is a gentleman of high
scholarly attainments, urbane and childlike in manner,
and highly respected by all classes of his countrymen.
Editions of his works in the Polish language have been
published in London, Paris, Leipsic, and Posen.
426 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
HYMN OF COMPLAINT.
(Z Dymem Pożarów).
' With smoke of burning — with blood outpouring,
O Lord! our voice we raise to-day
In fearful wailing, in last imploring,
In bitter sorrow that turns us gray!
Songs without murmur we have no longer,
Pierced are our temples with thorny bands,
Like Thy monuments of wrath grown stronger,
To Thee imploring we raise our liands!
O Lord! how often Thy hand has scourged us, —
Our red wounds bleeding and yet unhealed ;
We sought Thee vainly when anguish urged us:
Thou art our Father, and Thou shouldst shield.
But when we call Thee with hearts confiding
Then does the mocker, with fury shod,
Trample upon us and ask, deriding,
Where is that Father? where is that God?
We search the heavens for sign or token,
But suns of omen no signs unfold;
The silent azure is only broken
By eagle pinions that soared of old!
Our dreams grow fearful — with shadows teeming,-
By doubts distracting our souls are stirred;
By hearts that suffer not rash blaspheming,
Judge us, O judge not each frenzied word!
O Lord! what horrors, what woes surround us!
What days of terror upon us come!
The Cains are many whose deeds confound us,
The blood of brothers will not be dumb!
But judge not sternly, — their eyes are blinded,
Nor see the evil they do, O Lord!
KORNEL UJEJSKI. 427
O punish instead the baser minded
Who roused the anger that grasped the sword!
In our misfortunes Thou still dost hold us
Close to Thy bosom. We pray for rest
Like birds grown weary: — Thy pinions fold us,
Thy stars shine over our household nest.
Thy future favor reveal unto us,
Thy hand protecting above us spread;
Let flow'rs of sufFring to slumber woo us,
And sorrow's halo surround the head !
With Thine Archangel to go before us
We'll march to battle and win the fight;
In hearts of Satans who triumphed o'er us
We'll plant Thy standard of victor's might!
Then erring brethren — of error shriven
At Freedom's symbol their knee shall bow;
To vile blasphemers — the answer given,
" God is almighty and reigneth now ! "
UNDER THE GROUND.
(Pod Ziemie— Pod Zicmig.)
Under ground, under ground, — far away from the crowd,
Let me seek for a peaceable corner;
bis laughter disturbs me — this voice is too
That sound is like the voice of a mourner.
I would heap on my threshold sharp thorns to repel,
Place neai it a lion for warder;
All alone with my thoughts undisturbed I would dwell,
With only my God for recorder.
Around me this every-day prattling should cease,
All voices of slander and scheming;
Naught to darken the light of my sweet reverie
When, hand on my head, I am dreaming.
428 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
0 bow happy to rest from this turmoil, away
From cynical sneers, — a calm sleeper,
Hearing not of the envies — the feuds of the day,
Or who in the mire has sunk deeper.
1 am happier far in beholding them not,
Our souls are so widely unmated;
That I shame when I look on their nature's foul blot
To be in man's image created.
My hand seldom meets in this sycophant throng
The pressure of. brotherly fingers,
And I feel in my heart while its pride surges strong
That I am the last of God's singers.
Surround me with quiet and stillness, — surround,
Save but for the kindred outpouring
Of spirits, who soaring on pinions unbound
Break out into tuneful imploring.
Where no one will enter to listen to me,
Where silence around me shall hover:
Six feet under ground let my resting-place be,
With one narrow board for the cover.
1GNATZ IIOŁOWLŃSKl. 4lM,)
IGNATZ HOŁO WIŃSK I.
Ignatz HołowiŃSKi, Archbishop of Mohilev, and
metropolitę of Roman Catholic churches in the Rus-
sian empire. He was born in 1807, in Volhynia. In
1825 he entered the seminary at Euck, and after finish-
ing his theological studies at Wilno die became a chap-
lain in 1831. In 1839 he made a pilgrimage to the
Holy Land, and in 1842 was made a rector to the
Roman Catholic academy at St. Petersburg. In 1848
he was named a bishop; three years later (1851) lie
was advanced to the high office of Archbishop of
Mohilev. He died 7th of October, 1855.
Among his works we can mention: "Relations of
Philosophy to Religion and Civilization,'1 and several
poetical compositions of great merit. He was not only
a good poet, but also a distinguished orator. How
deeply and effectively he could work upon the feelings
of his congregation, the orator at his funeral, who
knew him personally, said: "From his lips breathed
the Holy Spirit, and his powerful eloquence bore down
and crushed superstition and unbelief. He softened
the hardest hearts, and awakened from deadly lethargy
the most obdurate sinners. He warmed with his piety,
and those who shed tears he carried them up to
heaven."
His sermons are the deepest treatises of subjects
he tried to preach, and they were delivered in the
purest and most charming eloquence.
430 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
THE ORPHAN.
Hard, indeed, is the orphan's life.
The orphaned soul has much to dread;
To labor on with heart at strife,
To earn the bitter crust of bread.
Oh, fearful lot with sorrow rife!
Little Josie was left alone
In her fifth year, — bereaved too young.
She from that time had only known
The charity from strangers wrung.
0 God! save all beneath Thy heaven
From charity by strangers given.
Though pretty as a flower to see,
Her soul with richest virtue fraught,
What hand is offered helpingly?
Who for the orphan taketh thought?
Whether her face be bright with glee,
Or tears arise from sadd'ning thought,
Poor orphan ! all is wrong, — for she
Can satisfy or please in naught.
Parents in this God's world below
Caress the children that He gives,
But she for whom no parent lives
Doth grieve for all she must forego.
While all things smile for those around,
In homes by hope, with blossoms crowned.
For her alone the world is drear,
The faces 'round her strange and cold;
What flowers upon her path unfold
She plucks and wets with many a tear.
Love, sympathy, for her are not.
Oh, dreary is the orphan's lot!
IGNATZ 110Ł0WINSKI. 481
When the world shunn'd her in neglect,
Her soul she raised in fervent prayers, —
In heaven her consolation sought, —
In Him who for the orphan cares,
The only happiness she knew
Her sweetest moments were when she
Would kneel beside her mother's grave
And pray to God most fervently.
And it was then that the white dove
Direct from heaven to her drew near,
Caressed her with its snowy wing,
Coo'd tenderly within her ear.
Driving her sorrows all away,
Until her heart with joy would swell,
And then the bird would gather up
The tears that from her eyelids fell,
And gently fluttering her wings,
Carry them up to paradise.
Whether her mother's spirit bore
These tears to God from out her eyes
Who knows? but after every prayer
This scene, repeated, strengthened her,
For further struggles with her fate
She stronger grew and readier.
But when she reached her sixteenth year
They wearied of her where she dwelt,
And on her coldly shut the door,
So by her mother's grave she knelt,
Dewed it with tears in farewell shed,
Then turning from her native place
She followed where her vision led.
Not far beyond the forest road
There rose a castle grand and gray,
On either side the river flowed,
And further on a village lav.
432 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
With two attendants at his side
Its lord was riding, pensive eyed,
Across the bridge. Though young, a trace
Of sadness lingered on his face.
Then slackening his horse's rein,
In silent thought he seemed to brood;
Slow paced the steed with drooping mane,
As though he shared his master's mood.
And thus, in melancholy-wise
He neared a grove that lay apart
And lifting up his downcast eyes,
Fear took possession of his heart.
For he beheld a stranger maid, —
Who walked with folded hands and prayed,
By white-robed angels circled round,'
And in their midst, with heavenly mien,
One clad in robes of brightest sheen, —
Her brow with starry halo crowned.
The youth gazed, wonderstruck, and saw
How from the maiden's lips, at close
Of every prayer, — oh, sight of awe! —
Came forth a beautiful red rose.
How with each Ave Maria said
Fell from her lips a lily white,
And these the angels gathered
• And wove into a chaplet bright,
And offered it unto their queen,
Who placed it with a smile serene
Upon the orphan's bended head.
Then passed the vision from his eyes,
With fragrance left of paradise.
The young man fell upon his knees
Before the maiden then, as she,
O'ercome by fear, had turned to flee
Because that she was unaware
ignatz hołowiński. 433
Of all these heavenly mysteries
That happened round her while at prayer.
" Oh, do not be alarmed, but stay,"
Cried the abashed and trembling youth.
" God's mercy sent you here this day
A consolation sweet, — in truth.
Hear me while I recount to you
How two brief years ago it was,
Heaven took my parents hence; I, too,
Up to this hour have mourned, — alas!
With tears that still mine eyes bedew.
So deeply was the burden laid
On me, my life began to fade.
But listen: last night in a dream
My parents came and said to me:
1 Oh, why oppose God's will supreme
In mourning thus incessantly?
Know then that we are happier here
Than when we lingered on the earth,
That thou didst love us and revere?
God will reward thee; though the maid
That for thy wife He destineth
Is poor and but of humble birth.
His mother, unto whom she prayed,
Will stoop and crown her with a wreath.'
And I indeed nave witnessed how,
Amid an angel band but now,
She placed the wreath upon thy brow."
Trembling the maiden looked at him,
While blushes dried each falling tear,
Then as from spheres of seraphim
Came down the snowy plumaged dove
To whisper words of peace and love
Into the orphan's listening ear.
434 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Then Josie raised the youth, who still
Kneeled waiting humbly at her feet,
And faltered in confusion sweet:
" God's will be done if 'tis His will."
And long before the day was done
Beside the little chapel's shrine
The youth and maid together stood.
God joined forevermore as one.
And Josie to her life's decline
Relieved the wants of orphanhood.
KRASZEWSKI.
436
KRASZEWSKI. 437
KRASZEWSKI.
Joseph Ignatz Kraszewski, born in 1812, is one of
the most prolific not only of Polish litterateurs, but of
the world. Only Lopez de Yega and Pere Dumas
could approach him in literary fertility. Incredible as
it may appear, over two hundred volumes of his
miscellaneous writings have been published; and still
more astonishing, that all of them are works of great
erudition and merit. The most discriminating critic
could hardly designate which is the best
But that is not all: Kraszewski, who at the present
writing of this biographical sketch resides in Dresden,
•Saxony, is a man of rare qualities of the heart and
mind, respected and honored not only by his own
countrymen, but also by all the literary men of the
world who are personally acquainted with him. His
literary creations always aimed to correct the heart and
the spirit of his nationality, and to lift up the heart
and the spirit of humanity at large. It is for these
reasons that the heart of the Polish Nation justly
swells with pride that Kraszewski is a Pole, and the
son of the same country as themselves.
Kraszewski labored in almost all branches of litera-
ture, and whatever he wrote he wrote upon the founda-
tion of truth; truly it may be said that the famous
Amalthea was always standing by his side with her
" Horn of Plenty," and poured out the poet's thoughts
gracefully and with a generous profusion.
The most extraordinary phenomenon in the history
of Kraszewski's life is the ovation which he received
year before last (1879) in the city of Cracow, on the
438 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
fiftieth anniversary of his great literary labors. Hun-
dreds, and we may say thousands, without distinction
of creeds, parties, or opinions, turned out to greet this
distinguished veteran of literature, and this great na-
tional demonstration lasted for several days. Two
monarchs honored him with tokens of their esteem.
Kraszewski received these congratulations with mod-
esty becoming a great man, representing a great peo-
ple. This great celebration was also participated in
by many distinguished representatives of other nation-
alities; and the interesting fact will go down into his-
tory that the pulse of the Polish national heart beat
in the year 1879 with as much patriotic fervor as in the
days of Poland's glory or her — misfortunes!
We may add here that the memorable event was
also celebrated by the Poles almost all over the United
States of America. In the city of Chicago especially
the celebration, under the auspices of two Polish socie-
ties— "Gmina Polska in Chicago,'7 and "Kościuszko,"
was of large proportions and attended by hundreds;
not only Poles, but other nationalities.
A handsome memorial was gotten up, with an appro-
priate inscription, and sent to Dresden to the veteran
of Polish literature by his admiring and grateful coun-
trymen.
The following are some of his works: ''Miscella-
neous Poems," Wilno, 1838; " Anafiełas," or songs
from the legends of Lithuania; " Witolorauda,"
"Hymns of Pain," "Metamorphoses," "Wonders
and Failings of the Age," " Lancers and Bondurak,"
"Four Weddings of Charles," "Iaryna," etc. etc.
The works of Kraszewski will prove a precious mine
to a future historian.
KRASZEWSKI. 439
AH ! MY DEAR ANGEL !
"Omój Aniele! pójdźiem połączeni"
WRITTEN IN YOUNGER DAYS
Ah! my dear angel! united we'll be
Through the world, through life, through pleasure and
grief;
As the green vine that clings 'round the oak tree,
And fondles the bark with its tender leaf,
Thus will we ever together be!
As two clear tear-drops that rest in the eye,
As two deep sighs from the heart that is true
Together we'll journey till death draws nigh,
You ever with me, I ever with you,
In this world, in heaven, in the grave!
Ah ! mv dear angel ! together we'll go
Through this cold world and through life's changful role,
Through storms of autumn, though whirlwinds may blow,
Ever together thou friend of my soul
Like unto two crystal tears!
THE SEA.
What has the earth, 0 sea! more beautiful than thou?
Where in creation dwells a majesty like thine?
Nought can destroy in thee the charm to which we bow;
In sight of earth and heaven thy grandeur is divine.
Thy boundlessness evolved from the creating will
Forecasts eternity, and says to pride " Be still ! "
Whether the sun looks down into thy billowy green
Or sinks its burning rays in thy translucent breast,
Suffusing thee in flames of gold and crimson sheen,
Or with the opal glow wherein the dove is dressed: —
Whether dark night comes on or Menes pale draws near
To leave upon thy waste his traces silver clear,
440 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Still art thou beautiful — still wonderfully grand!
The human eye that rests on thy immensity
Draws from thy depth high thoughts, to which our souls
expand,
More precious than the pearls and corals hid in thee;
And to thy witching sounds the ear does list amazed;
In them we seem to hear how God, the Lord, is praised.
Thy silence is sublime, and terrible thy roar
When thy blue field puts on its somber-green attire;
In storms thou hurlest thee against the rugged shore,
Throwing thy snow-white foam from out thy breast in ire;
Thou fill'st man's heart with dread lest in thy wild unrest
Thou shouldst engulf the earth within thy angry breast!
BIORO DRAWER AND THE HEAD.
A certain man renowned
For learning most profound
His bioro drawer showed to me.
" Behold these papers ! what a store
I have for thirty years or more
Been putting in this drawer," said he.
" My worthy friend, I tell you true
They're full of wisdom — learning too."
But one who notice chanced to take
Of all their talk said: "What a pity"
(I don't know as it was witty
For him such a remark to make).
That which we ever look to find —
Wisdom and learning — in the head
Were by this gentleman instead
To his bioro drawer consigned.
SIENKIEWICZ. 441
SIENKIEWICZ.
Charles Sienkiewicz was born in Ukraine, and re-
ceived his education in the city of Humań; then lie
went to Winnica, and finally finished his studies at
Krzemieniec. Very soon after he went in company of
Zamoyskis and traveled for several years in Europe,
but the most of his time was passed in England and
Scotland. After his return to his native land he super-
intended the extensive library of Prince Adam Czarto-
ryiski, at Puławy. After the downfall of the revolu-
tion of 1830 he joined the emigration, and leaving
Poland, settled in Paris, where he was very diligently
engaged in the cause of the Polish emigration. Through
his own and Niemcewicz's influence there was estab-
lished, in 1838, in Paris, a Polish historical depart-
ment, which finally was stocked with a library of
30,000 volumes. In his younger days he gave him-
self up to poetry. His translation of Walter Scott's
" Lady of the Lake'' ranks among the best translations
of English poetry into the Polish language. While the
chief superintendent of the library of Puławy he em-
ployed himself with great self-denial in completing a
catalogue of the duplicates of the library. Then he
wrote an addition to Bentkowski's " Polish Literature."
Besides these he wrote on political economy and "An
Account of the Present State of Greece," which he fin-
ished in 1830. While in Paris he gave himself up
entirely to historical labors, and it was through his ex-
ertions that "The Chronicles of the Polish Emigration "
were published, from 1835 to 1838, in eight volumes,
three of which were exclusively his own labor. He
442 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
then wrote "Treasures of the Polish History," in four
volumes — 1839-42 — with valuable additional mate-
rials to the history of Poland, which he elucidated in a
very learned and interesting manner. In 1854 he pub-
lished a work in the French language, " Documents
Historiques relatif a la Eussie et la Pologne," in three
volumes. Just before his death he finished a manual
of Polish history for the high Polish school at Batig-
nolle. He died in Paris in 1860. After his death his
writings and literary labors were published, in 1864.
VARSOVIENNE.
" Oto dziś dzień krwi i chwały."
Poles, awake ! 'tis your day of glory.
Arise, oh arise in your might!
You will live in deathless story
Should you fall in your country's fight.
Where the rainbow in heaven is beaming
As he basks in July's brilliant ray,
Your white eagle's eye is gleaming
As he calls to the glorious fray.
On, true Poles! See, the foe is before us!
Sound the charge and the day is won!
With our sacred banner spread o'er us,
On for freedom and Poland, on!
ii.
The fierce Cossack has mounted his legions,
Our young freedom to crush in its birth ;
But soon o'er his mountain regions
We'll trample his hopes in the earth.
Barbarians! Your visions of booty,
Though ye triumph, will soon be fled;
SIENKIEWICZ. 443
For the Pole knows a soldier's duty,
And will leave you nought but the dead.
On, true Poles! etc.
Kościuszko, arise! and aid us
To root from the soil our foe,
Who has promised, deceived, betrayed us,
Steeping Praga in carnage and woe.
Let the blood of the murderer flowing
Enrich each grassy tomb
Where our flow'rets of victory growing
Shall more gayly, more gorgeously bloom.
On, true Poles! etc.
iv.
Parent land, thy children returning
This day would deserve thy smile,
Thy altars with wreaths adorning
From the Kremlin, the Tyber, the Nile.
Years have passed since each exiled brother
His native land has press'd;
Should he fall there now, oh mother!
On thy bosom he will sweetly rest. -
On, true Poles! etc.
v.
Gallant Poles, to the battle rally,
To humble the tyrant czar !
And in each heroic sally
Bear the ring in the front of the war;
Let that gift of our Poland's daughters
Be the charm to freeze to foe,
While gemmed in an hundred slaughters
Our symbol of victory will glow.
On, true Poles! etc.
444 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
VI.
0 ye French ! what bloody arena
Did the Poles shun in fighting for you?
Was it Wagram, Marengo, or Jena,
Dresden, Leipzig, or Waterloo?
When the woild had betrayed to enslave you
Did the Pole yield to the coward's fears?
O brethren! our life-blood we gave you;
In return you give us but tears.
On, true Poles! See, the foe is before us!
Sound the charge and the day is won!
With our sacred banner spread o'er us,
On for freedom and Poland, on!
ZMORSKI. 445
ZMORSKL
Roman Zmorski, besides possessing great poetic
talents, should also be credited with another inesti-
mable quality ; — his great ability as a translator. But
that is not all. In rendering translations he preserved
the spirit and colors of the originals, a fact acknowl-
edged by all who read his renditions from the Serbian
into the Polish, and who well understood both lan-
guages. He was so great an adept in the art of trans-
lation that he invariably preserved even the original
form. Everything he attempted in literature he in-
fused into it a peculiar literary freshness, and this rare
virtue especially pervades his translation of the le-
gends taken from the literary treasury of peoples still
young and unripe in civilization, but strong in the
faith of heaven and the love of earth -
The following translations of Serbian poetry by
Zmorski may be mentioned: 1. "National Songs of
Serbia," published at Warsaw, 1853; 2. "The Castle
of Seven Chiefs,'- founded on tradition, Lemberg, 1857,
and a second edition, illustrated by Gerson, Warsaw,
1860; 3. "The Royal Prince, Marko," Warsaw, 1859;
4. " Lazarica," Warsaw, 1860. Mr. Zmorski, having
lived in Serbia and knowing the people and their
tongue well, could appreciate the beauty and value
of their many songs, and we acknowledge that he has
rendered a great service to Polish literature by his
conscientious translations, for it has been of great
importance to the Polish nation to obtain a correct
knowledge of these valiant people, which in our times
have been called into a new life.
446 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The translator, however, for better and more faith-
ful rendition, used the blank verse, and if in one re-
spect he deprived them of exterior ornaments, on the
other hand he preserved strictly the original spirit
and the true meaning. He is also the author of
"Lesław," a fantastic tale.
Mr. Zmorski was quite a distinguished Polish poet;
was born at Warsaw in 1824, and died in 1866.
SIGHS FROM A FAK-OFF LAND.
In a strange and cold land,
Strangers on ev"ry hand,
Sadly, wearily, time passes o'er.
Oh! billows pearly white,
Vistula's sands gold bright,
When, oh when shall I see you once more?
The weary soul must stay,
Though fain would fly away,
For all the time her dreams are of thee;
Narev's and Buh's * shores afar
My mem'ry's flowers are
Remembrance of happy days. Ah, me!
As with Masovia's f song,
So sad, so wild, and strong,
The old woods roar in my ears alway;
In cemeteries' shade,
From graves where sires are laid,
I listen to what their spirits say.
Dear brethren, kindred band!
Woods of my fatherland!
* Narev and Buh, names of two rivers,
t Masovia, a province of Poland
ZMOKSKI. 447
Ye plains! and our godly world and best!
I with my thoughts and heart
Am ne'er from you apart,
Your own spirit breathes within my breast.
My strength and sword ye are,
My chief and brightest star
Midst storms, heat and cold and wandering;
When grief has passed away,
God at some future day
A resurrection hymn will let us sing.
IN PEASANT'S CLOTHES.
Like peasants, brethren, let us dress,
If you wish the people to lead;
Our love alone does not express
Enough. To dress like them we need
Minds o'er whom foil}7 holds the sway,
Who feel the ridicule of fops,
Let them speak in a foreign way
And put on clothes from foreign shops.
Whom fashion vain a god has made,
And whose contempt the people know,
Let him in foreign clothes arrayed,
Wear the apparel of the foe.
Where Kosciuszko's steps have led
Let's follow in the people's dress;
Let spirit and appearance wed
The Polish nation, bind and bless.
Like peasants, brethren, let us dress,
If you wish the people to lead;
Our love alone does not express
Enough. To dress like them we need.
448 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
ZMICHOWSKA.
Narctssa Zmichowska (Gabryela), a sweet and
charming poetess, was born at Warsaw on the 4th of
March, 1819. A sepulchral mound raised to her
memory only two years ago will be a place of pilgrim-
age to all who appreciate genius and unblemished char-
acter. Three days after she was born her mother died,
and Narcissa was left an orphan. This orphanage has
left traces of deep sadness on her; she was not, how-
ever, left without a good guardianship, her aunt took
her and brought her up with the greatest care. Under
her eyes the young flower of a maiden began to bloom
and develop most charmingly, She very early evinced
extraordinary capabilities for learning and quickness of
comprehension, and gave great promise of future dis-
tinction. Besides that, another great and exalted feel-
ing began to unfold itself in Gabryela, and that was
the patriotic love of her country. One of her brothers,
who was concerned in the revolution of 1831, was com-
pelled to emigrate into foreign lands, and for him, the
unfortunate wanderer, she felt the greatest affection.
She received her initiatory education at the home of
her aunt, and then she was sent to the Young Ladies'
Pension, under the supervision of Madam Wilczyńska,
the best institution of the kind in Warsaw. Under the
guidance of this distinguished preceptress, fitting her-
self for a teacher, Narcissa finished her course with
eminent success. She was then employed in the
family of Count Zamoyski as a private teacher, and
finally settled in Paris. Here for the first time she
tried her hand at composition and wrote a few pictures
ZMICHOWSKA. 449
of her travels— "Gibraltar," and "The Ruins of
Luxor," which were published in the "Warsaw Li-
brary" in 1842. The third piece, entitled "The
Storm," was published in the periodical called "The
Star." These poetic pictures attracted great attention;
the scenes, the word-painting, the richness of fancy
and loftiness of thought, were greatly admired by all,
litterateurs not excepted. Jachowicz, the poet, was
enchanted with these novel effusions, and while read-
ing the effusion "The Storm" predicted great fame to
the young authoress.
The residing in Paris had a great influence in un-
folding Narcissa's genius. Paris in those days was
the place of abode of the most distinguished Polish
poets. Mickiewicz, Słowacki, Krasiński, and Goszczyń-
ski were still living, and Narcissa became acquainted
with them all. Bohdan Zaleski, who is still living,
was also among them. Her poem "Happiness of the
Poet" was published in " The Violet," where the in-
fluence of Mickiewicz is plainly seen; but aside from
that, we here discover in the sound of this young
poetess' lute a combination of the manly power of
expression with woman's tenderness of feeling.
The originality of her poetic talent is still more
strongly depicted in her later compositions. A copious
collection in prose and verse was published at Posen
in 1845, entitled "Idle Hours of Gabryela." They
contain larger poems, fugitive pieces, and also tales in
prose. The critics welcomed their appearance unani-
mously. They justly saw in Gabryela a new shining
star in the heavens of native literature.
The poetess, who carried in her heart the ideal of
justice and love, oftentimes touches in her creations
the strings of social degradation, misery, and egotism.
450 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Whenever she mentions these subjects her heart swells
with feeling either of contempt, pity, misery, or unrest.
A great knowledge of human nature characterizes all
her writings, especially her tales written in prose.
Indeed, there are but few authors who possess a deeper
feeling and a more extensive store of psychological
knowledge. Eeturning to the enumeration of her works
we can mention the following: " The Curse," "The
Problem," "Uncertainty," "Certainty," "Weary,"
"Eeality," "The Kind Maiden," " Longing," " En-
chantment," " Impossibility," "The Gift," "What I
Would Give You," "For the Loved Ones," "The
Orphan," and "To My Little Girls," which we give
below.
Although the ideal principally illumed her path,
yet with her exalted thoughts and quick comprehension
of the great problems of humanity, she united every-
day practical knowledge of life; her life was a unity of
all these, and hence the reason why it was so harmo-
nious and beautiful. At this time there was no lack of
distinguished women in Poland; yet Zmichowska did
not occupy a second place among them for reasons
above mentioned.
There is considerable similarity between Gabryela
and George Sand; there is a striking resemblance be-
tween the richness of their language and loftiness of
their style; they were alike in the deep knowledge of
the human heart; there was a similarity in their noble
thoughts and sympathies. If there was any difference
between these two genial women it falls to the credit
of Gabryela. She was a true Polish woman, and that
preserved her from unbelief and the fanciful attempts
as to the emancipation of women. Religion and the
old Polish traditions, which put women on the highest
ZMICHOWSKA. 451
possible plane, kept her mind away from traveling the
pathless track. It cannot be denied that her mind had
somewhat traveled through the philosophical causeways
of doubt as other reflecting and independent minds do
travel ; but she returned to the path of faith and affir-
mation, led by the above mentioned Polish traditions.
Much of her time was occupied in the education of
young ladies, and that gained for her a great reputa-
tion as one of the most accomplished and successful
teachers in the country. Besides the invaluable influ-
ence she exerted by her writings and educating young
ladies, she had still greater influence upon society by
fostering and keeping up the patriotic spirit. She was
kind, affable, and winning in her manner, and knew
how to address the young generation in her familiar
conversations with them. In fact, she was sure to im-
prove the hearts and minds of all those who came in
contact with her.
She lived alternately in the provinces and in War-
saw, and after the year 1863 she went to France to
attend the funeral of a beloved brother, who died there
while a wanderer in a strange land. Her brother's
death seemed to have thrown a shadow over her life,
and those who personally knew her in her own coun-
try, always full of energy and activity, could hardly
realize the change that had taken place in her, she
became so unspeakably sad. Yet toward the end of
her life her wonted energy returned. The sight of
many young persons who grew up, as it were, amidst
the ruins without losing their patriotic spirit, revived
her energies, and she again became an arduous and
tireless co-laborer for the general good and usefulness
of the whole country.
In her elegiac poem " Why Am I So Sad ? " which
452 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
is one of the most touching compositions of the kind
in the Polish language, guessing at the many probable
causes of her sadness, she intimates in the most feel-
ing and yet the most delicate manner that she loves
some one, but not being allowed to divulge the secret
to the world, she says she can confide it only to God.
Her last labor was a tale, printed in the news-
paper " Wiek " (The Age), entitled " Is This a Tale ? "
She wrote it with almost benumbed hand, and when
she was not able to write herself on account of long-
suffering pain, she dictated it from a bed of sickness,
and was very anxious and much concerned about this
last literary effort of her life, it being a testament of a
living spirit. Upon this story one could expand a
studium upon the development of her mind and its
fullness at the last hour.
With little diminutive analyses of feeling as to the
relations of every-day life, there existed in the mind of
Gabryela a lofty soaring of the -mind, encompassing
great expanse and numerous visions. She was, as she
herself says, very bashful and at the same time auda-
cious in her spirit conceptions, which gave to her
writings a stamp of independent originality. Her
works carry one away into the regions of fancy, and then
again furnish a solid food for reflection. They appear
like the antique cameos, of which one is uncertain
which to admire the most — the striking expression of
the sculptured relief or the unaffected subtlety of the
finish.
Zmichowska expired on the 26th of December, 1876,
surrounded by a great but mourning circle of relatives
and sincere friends. Before her death she received
many heartfelt tokens of respect and gratitude of
people advanced already in years, as well as from the
ZMICHOWSKA, 453
younger generation, as a woman whose task to labor
for the good of all was the chief and only aim of her
noble life, full of trials and sacrifices.
Gabryela was buried in Warsaw on the 28th, from
the Church of All Saints. She was followed to the
grave by a great concourse of people, almost all repre-
sentatives of mental and patriotic life. The youth of
the University carried the precious remains from the
catafalque to the grave.
FANCY FLIGHTS.
He. I'll take a candle, lantern, and a burning brand,
To search if there's an honest girl in the land.
She. I'll take the moon, the stars — I'll take the bright sun,
To find a man with loving heart — perhaps there's one.
He. I have looked, I have searched, till convinced in the matter,
To find a good girl man must shake his gold at her.
She. I've looked with persistence, and it's plain to be seen
That men can love deeply — love themselves, I mean.
He. I ha*ve found one very honest — one I could adore ;
Quiet and pretty, — a painted doll in a store.
She. After much painstaking I've found the one I thought,
A handsome, gay warrior, but on canvas wrought.
He. Just let the painted doll show feeling in her eyes,
The warrior might to horseback from canvas arise.
She. If the young warrior on the horseback sat
He might find the painted doll's heart went pit-a-pat.
LONGING.
I yearn in winter for the flowers to blow,
And when they give me greeting in the spring,
I long for the while bind-weeds blossoming,
And with its blossoming a flake of snow.
454 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
For brotherly companionship I yearn,
When with my brother — then for you I long.
With you the yearning for my God grows strong
With Him my longings for the world return.
The good and evil that constrains my soul
Whate'er I long for — whatsoe'er I fear,
My thoughts and impulses from year to year,
As my own life, are but a longing whole !
TO MY LITTLE GIRLS.
My little girls, you haste too much your gaze
Into the future and believe its days
Will like paymaster just to pay all due
From its stores large interest render you.
But o'er this. thought old people shake their heads,
The hope of happiness a false light sheds
To them ; yet listen ! there is happiness,
It even comes this weary world to bless;
Your years is happiness — so innocent
The childish and the youthful sweetly blent;
Without experience but without care
Your bread for coming morrows to prepare,
Whether exhausted pleasure's sources bright,
Whether till eve will linger morning's light.
Blessed the first spring days so glad, so free;
Blessed the joyful days of youth; for thee
The trees' perfume, the nightingale's refrain;
Bodah, the poet, sings for thee this strain:
" Thou'rt a dream of flowers, a golden dream;
Ideal of faith and virtue — pure, supreme."
But o'er these dreams, — o'er freedom, too, in truth,-
There's still a greater happiness, O youth !
Yes, 'tis still greater, more alluring still.
It's voice is soft and innocent. It will,
ZMICIIOWSKA. 455
With prayer to God, — pure, earnest and sincere, —
So softly breathe " I love thee,"' sweet and clear.
Yet waits a greater happiness than this,
When love for love is given. That is bliss !
Then will your heart with stronger pulses beat,
And warmly throb with rapture new and sweet,
And in it find new strength, and talent wake
As from a dream, high tasks to undertake.
But there is happiness e'en this above.
'Tis that of great Humanity's best love, —
Real love of Christ that warms us as the sun;
In God's word is bread for every one,
In life on earth amid the crowd alway,
In light of wisdom and the light of day;
In thoughts of our ancestors we recall,
In labor and salvation unto all;
In merciful forgiveness of our sins
Through that surpassing love that gently wins.
My little girls, let ev'ry one believe
That happiness like this she will receive.
Let each pursue it, look for it, and know
That beauty, joy and study, even woe,
Were given you as help most wise and kind
That you at last sad happiness might find.
Epitaph.
Here at all times all things are full of gloom.
He who indifferent is will grieve you.
He whom ardently you love will leave you,
And who loves you is laid within the tomb.
Here there is naught to comfort or to cheer;
Here suffering is your portion ever.
Oh! better 'tis to sleep and waken never;
'Tis better in the quiet grave than here.
456 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
OLIZAROWSKI.
Thomas Olizarowski, a prolific and popular writer
of poetry, such as "Dumki" (mournful poems) and
Sonnets. He also wrote several humorous pieces,
which were much admired. His greater poems, such
as "Solemn Praises," "Psalms," and "Complaints,"
gained for him a wide reputation. His '.'Tales in
Verse," the best of which is "The Storm," and a poem
in the romantic spirit, "Bruno," are classed among the
first productions of the kind.
It is a matter of regret that we have no particulars
of this poet's life. His works were published at Cra-
cow, 1836-9, and at Breslau, 1852. He also com-
posed a drama, " Vincent from Szamotuł," which was
published in 1850.
BE MINE.
How difficult to gain
From your sweet lips one word,
Must I seek in vain,
Content with hope deferred?
How dearly I love thee;
Speak! let me know my fate.
I can no longer wait
Whate'er my sentence be.
Beauty must have her way,
Yet grant to me some sign;
Quite wild with love I pray,
Ah! darling, be thou mine!
OLIZ AKOWSKI. 457
LUCINA AND THE STREAM.
My Lucina doth resemble
This clear stream, whose waters tremble;
'Tis her lovely image surely,
For it flows so gently, purely.
But when I recall how yonder
Streamlet parts its banks asunder,
I incline to think I wrong her,
That the likeness holds no longer.
For I know her nature tender,
Kindest service seeks to render;
That she would if in her power
Join these severed banks this hour.
Therefore she cannot resemble
This clear stream, whose waters tremble;
For these shores she would not sever
Keeping each apart forever.
CHLOE AND THE STUMP.
Oh, how much this object here
Reminds me of my Chloe so dear;
I mean this quiet, silent stump,
As crooked 'tis as she and plump.
But then this stump in silence rests,
Secluded from all noise and strife,
And no bad temper manifests;
It leads a peaceful, quiet life.
Not so with my beloved Chloe,
From quiet she is far, I know;
In angry tones she scolds at me
If things are not as they should be.
No, I am sure 'twas a mistake;
No real resemblance can I make;
Would she like it were free from guile,
Nor storming at me all the while!
458 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A. A. JAKUBOWSKI.
In closing this collection of poets and poetry of
Poland, the editor introduces one more name, which
will ever remain green in his memory, and which so
vividly reminds him of his own life's changes and its
vicissitudes. Young Iakubowski was his political fel-
low prisoner at Briinn and Trieste, and the companion
of his youth, and, what is more, born and brought up
in the same part of Poland. He was a young man of
great poetic genius, and by his early death Polish lit-
erature has lost much. Moreover, he possessed noble-
ness of character and kindness of disposition such as
are rarely found. He composed many fugitive pieces
of great poetic beauty, some of which we're translated
and published many years ago in a small volume en-
titled "Remembrances of a Polish Exile," but we
could not obtain a copy.
Iakubowski prided himself much in being a relative
of the poet Malczewski, and while engaged as a teacher at
Stockbridge, Massachusetts, he heard that the brother
of the poet was a general in the Mexican army. He
went to Mexico and found him, but the haughty man-
ner of his proud relative wounded the spirit of the
youth, and he returned to the United States very much
depressed. He never seemed to recover from this
check to his sensitive and poetic soul, and amidst, un-
satisfied aspirations and ruined hopes death claimed
him for his own at the age of twenty-two years.
ODE TO NAPOLEON,
i.
Great as thou wert, Napoleon ! thou lost but little blood
In the mighty cause of liberty, the holy and the good.
A. A. JAKUBOWSKI. 459
Thou thoughtst alone on how another gem
Thou'dst place upon thy empire diadem,
Or how another pearl thou'dst find
To add unto thy wreath,
That, placed in Fame's high towering dome,
Shall never yield to death.
ii.
Like some volcano on the plain,
Thou poured on earth thy burning rain,
Made monarchs tremble at thy word,
And balanced Europe on thy sword.
Gay wert thou with honor,
Sad with glory, too, wert thou,
For the darkness of ambition
Sat enthroned upon thy brow.
Not only kings didst thou hurl down,
But for a while
E'en fate did wait upon thy smile
And tremble at thy frown.
in.
E'en as the ocean, wave on wave,
Fights 'gainst the rocks its waters lave,
And vainly makes its surges roll;
So did those base and paltry things, —
Europe's hereditary kings, —
Fight 'gainst thy adamantine soul.
iv.
And e'en when exiled o'er the sea,
They trembled at the thoughts of thee;
And though the iron bolt of fate
Had crushed and left thee desolate,
There was a magic in thy name
No spell on earth could e'er resemble,
To make the wildest monarch tame,
The boldest conqueror tremble.
INDEX
PAGE.
List of Illustrations . . '5
Polish Accented Letters 6
Pronunciation of Polish
Poets . . . . .7
Introduction . . 11
History of Polish Poetry 17
Key—
Sketch of Life ... 36
Virtue 37
Vice 38
What Poland was 340 years
ago 38
A Thought . . . .38
Anecdote .... 38
Useless the yield, etc. . . 39
Kochanowski —
Sketch of . . . .41
The Greatness of God . . 42
Thren I .... 43
ThrenVII .... 44
Thren IX . . . .44
Thren X . . . . 45
Thren XIII ... 45
From Canto XIII . . .46
Tales of St. John's Eve . 47
Excerpts 53
Klonowicz —
Sketch of .... 54
Merits of Poland . .56
M liskowski —
Sketch of . . . .58
Dialogue between Death and
a Young Maiden . . 58
SZYMONOWICZ —
Sketch of . . . .60
Sielanka (Pastoral) . . 61
Sielanka XIV, Jealous Wife 64
Epigrams .... 68
Zimorowicz —
Sketch of 69
Song 70
Sielanka 71
Sielanka .... 72
Sielanka 72
Gawiński—
Sketch of . . . .74
Pastoral (Sielanka) . . 74
Bones on the Battle Field . 77
Soldier Slain ... 77
The Ploughman and the
Lark 77
Drużbacka —
Sketch of . . . .79
' Spring 80
Sarbiewski —
Sketch of . . . .81
To the Cicada . . .82
To Liberty .... 83
A Thought . . . .87
Konarski—
Sketch of . . . .88
Naruszewicz —
Sketch of .... 92
Consultation of Animals . 95
Who is Foolish . .97
Kniazńin —
Sketch of . . . .99
A Reverie .... 100
Eternity . . . .101
Religion .... 101
31 orawski —
Sketch of ... . 102
Giermek .... 103
Karpiński —
Sketch of . . . .111
Morning Hymn . . 113
Evening Hymn . . .113
Yearnings in the Spring 114
Peace that Virtue Brings 115
Woronicz—
Sketch of .... 117
From the Temple of the
Sybil 120
Love and Virtue . • 121
The Poles . . . .121
Krasicki —
Sketch of . . . . 123
461
462
INDEX
PAGE.
The War of Chocim . . 128
How much to Drink . 135
Drunkeness: A Satire . 136
Fables : The King . . 139
The Lazy Oxen . . .139
The Mosquito and the Fly 139
The Boys and the Frogs . 140
The Ram and the Jackass 140
The Standish and the Pen 141
The Dog and his Master . 141
The Tallow Candle and the
Torch .... 141
The Fool and the Sage . 142
The Tortoise and the Mouse 142
The Haughty Rat . . 143
The Cat and the Hound . 143
The Two Painters . . 143
The Child and the Rod . 144
The Shepherd and his
Sheep .... 144
The Captive Bird . .145
The Philosopher . . 145
Wengierski —
Sketch of . . . .146
My Wife .... 147
What one Likes . . . 148
Trembecki —
Sketch of .... 151
Baloon 153
Niemcewicz —
Sketch of .... 157
America and Gen'l Wash-
ington 165
United States ... 166
Duma Gliński . . .167
Duma Potocki . . . 171
Fastidiana . . . .175
Dmochowski —
Sketch of . . . . 184
Cracow's Environs . . 185
Castle of Oycow . . 185
Minasowicz—
Sketch of . . . .186
The Maiden and the Rose 186
What you are . . . 187
Feliński —
Sketch of . . . .188
Polish National Hymn . 188
From the Tragedy of Bar-
bara Radziwił . . . 190
Kropiński —
Sketch of . . . . 191
PAGE.
Human Life .
. 192
A Fragment from his Elegy
of Hedwige, Queen
of
Poland ....
194
Osiński —
Sketch of .
. 195
In Praise of Copernicus
196
Wybicki —
* Sketch of
. 200
Poland is not yet Lost .
201
Mickiewicz—
Sketch of .
. 203
Primrose . .
210
Ode to Youth
. 212
New Year's Wishes
214
To M— ....
. 215
A Moment and a Sparkle 217
From the " Ancestors "
. 217
From Faris .
. 218
From the same
218
Father's Return .
. 218
Childe Harold's Farewell
to his Native Land .
222
Translation of the same into
Polish ....
223
Brodziński —
Sketch of
. 228
The Father and his Son
. 232
The Old Man .
. 233
Slander . .
235
Friendship .
. 235
Wiesław ....
236
Krasiński —
Sketch of .
. 257
Pray for Me . . .
264
Ever and Everywhere
. 264
To a Lady
265
Once I asked the Day
. 266
Resurecturis
267
SłOWACKI —
Sketch of ....
273
I am so sad, 0 God .
. 280
Extracts from Słowack
i's
Tragedy, Mindowe .
, 282
Garczyński —
Sketch of . . .
290
Military Sonnet .
. 292
Conversation .
293
Zaleski —
Sketch of .
. 295
The Poet's Song .
297
'Tis different with us .
. 298
INDEX.
463
PAGE.
Unas inaczej (the sanie
in
Polish) ....
299
To my Guitar
. 302
Jachowicz —
Sketch of ....
303
Sunset ....
. 305
The Little Orphan .
306
Mother's Warning
. 307
The Little Jewess .
307
The Widow's Mite .
. 308
Korzeniowski— -
Sketch of .
309
The Last Labor .
. 311
Wasilewski —
Sketch of ....
314
Upon the Rocky Shore
. 316
Memory's Tear
317
Jaśkowski—
Sketch of .
. 318
A Tale ....
318
Zan—
Sketch of .
. 323
Triolets ....
326
Gaszyński —
Sketch of .
. 328
Shakspeare (A Sonnet)
330
When by the Shores of your
Beloved Land
331
The Young Warrior and the
Swallow .
. 332
Envy
333
BOGUSŁAWSKI —
Sketch of .
. 334
She only Laughed .
334
Len arto wicz —
Sketch of
. 336
Ever .the Same.
338
Deotyma —
Sketch of
. 343
Symphony of Life .
345
Berwiński —
Sketch of
. 358
The Exile's Song .
359
On the Lake Gopło .
. 359
Malczewski —
Sketch of ....
364
Extracts from " Marya '
. 367
Goszczyński —
Sketch of .
371
Conscience .
. 375
New Year's Prayer
376
Pol—
Sketch Of .... :!7!>
Song of the Mound . 382
Little Star .... :JS4
Kondratowicz —
Sketch of .... 387
Death of the Nightingale . 390
The Soldier Wanderer . 391
The Ploughman and the
Lark 892
Countrymen, I beg assist-
ance .... 393
Mathew's Unlucky Turns 395
Odyiśiec —
Sketch of . . . .397
Prayers (A Legend) 397
Julian Korsak —
Sketch of . . . .401
The Frozen Tear . . 402
My Beloved One . . .403
WlTWICKI —
Sketch of .... 404
Cupid 404
The Warrior . . . 405
Josephine .... 406
GOSłAWSKI —
Sketch of . . . . 408
Had I the Royal Eagle's
Wings . . . .408
Uncertainty . . . 409
Raymund Korsak —
Sketch of . . . .411
Ode to God ... 411
Extract from a Religious
Poem .... 412
Górecki —
Sketch of . . . .413
Doom of the Traitor to his
Country ... 414
To a Lady Laughing at a
Stammering Poet . . 417
Fables : The Oxen and the
Spaniel .... 418
The Bis: Ship and the Small
Boat 418
The Drop of Water . 418
Sparrows • . • .419
Baliński —
Sketch of . . . • 400
Exile's Prayer in the Spring422
What's the use of Dreaming 423
464
INDEX.
PAGE.
PAGE.
The Living Corpse .
. 423
Zmorski —
Ujejski —
Sketch of . ... .445
Sketch of
. 425
Sighs from Far-off Land 446
Hymn of Complaint
. 426
In Peasant's Clothes . 447
Under the Ground .
. 427
Zmichowska —
HołOWlŃSKI —
Sketch of . .
. 429
Sketch of . . . .448
Fancy Flights . . . 453
The Orphan . .
Kraszewski —
Sketch of .
. 430
. 437
Longing .... 453
To My Little Girls . . 454
Epitaph 455
Olizarowski —
Ah ! my dear Angel .
. 439
Sketch of .... 456
The Sea .
. 439
Be Mine . . . .456
Bioro Drawer and
the
Lucina and the Stream . 457
Head .
. 440
Chloe and the Stump . 457
Sienkiewicz —
Jakubowski —
Sketch of
. 441
Sketch of . . . .458
Varsovienne .
. 442
Ode to Napoleon . . 458
1958 i
■ i
m